The Honey Bee
by celcette
Summary: AU. In which Mike Chang learns that Quinn Fabray always gets what she wants. After all, she's Queen Bee and he's her honey. No matter who she has to sting and buzz to get it. Unrequited loved has never been so sweet. Fabang.
1. Prologue

Prologue

* * *

Desire is the root of all suffering.

As a Christian and type A know-it-all, Quinn Fabray found it imperative that she learn the fundamentals of other religions to strengthen her own convictions. One all too tedious day at the Fabray summer home, a passable bungalow thirty minutes from Miami purchased using three of daddy's Christmas bonuses and a hefty tax return, Quinn Fabray rolled down the Google search result page.

She skipped the inaccurate Wikipedia link that first popped up, scrolled through the images of Buddha and finally decided on the fifth or sixth result. _Introduction to the Buddhism faith_.

She pressed her finger down the mouse pad and stretches her back, waiting for the page to load.

Crappy AT&T internet service.

Finally, a gaudily themed web page with a GIF of a Buddha takes on the page, a point form introduction being the first semblance of information that caught her eye.

_Nirvana, karma, samsara..._ She took in, pressing her cheek against her newly fisted fist. An hour ago, Quinn's presumably pink brain would be enraptured in the contrasting beliefs of other faiths. Certainly Hinduism and Sikhism stimulated her brain, but with any research topic, one grows bored of the same continuous process that comes with learning the basis of certain religions.

Just as her free hand found its way towards the mouse, already planning on slipping into the all too inappropriate neon pink bikini she's been itching to put on, a link on the left hand side of the website caught her eye.

_The Four Noble Truths _

To summarize, Buddhists believe desire is the root of all suffering. To end suffering, one must end desire.

Now, Quinn doesn't believe in poking holes in other beliefs. Well, that isn't entirely true. Being a Fabray, defending their religious and personal beliefs through undermining others' has become a regular practice within the family, but she tried her best not to do so when she can help it.

But in that moment, at least, she can't help it.

In her thirteen-year-old mind frame, amid the fascination with the Jonas Brothers and the latest Juicy Couture handbag, she believed it to be false.

No one has ever suffered for wanting things.

She thought of Frannie Fabray, figuratively, of course, for her over-achieving big sister would sooner receive a root canal or a Gatorade bath than see her and her "small minded, small town residing family." Frannie's desire for power and wealth and glamour is what led to her becoming a high profile agent for some large agency in South California.

Unless receiving deep tissue massages across the ocean at the hands of a muscular, wildly charming man was suffering, Quinn had to conclude the statement false.

Desire is not the root of all suffering.

Desire is natural. Without desire, humans would not have moved past pharaohs and kings and 80's perms. Without desire, she would not be in line to be the newest, youngest flyer for the McKinley High Cheerios this coming Autumn. Without desire, and the pursuit of one's desires, Quinn Fabray wouldn't be Quinn Fabray.

For, you see, Quinn Fabray was the epitome of fulfilled desire.

Not mere desire; anyone can want things.

It took truly extraordinary, impeccable women such as herself to fulfill desire.

And to grow a head so big, she wouldn't fit into the Volkswagen Beetle that daddy already has lined up for her when she receives her driving license.

Ergo, desire is not the root of all suffering.

If it were, Quinn would be on the verge of a nervous breakdown or the Golden Bridge.

But she wasn't.

And she never will.

She cannot think of a single scenario where she would ever, ever, _ever_ suffer from her ambition. Because at the end of the day, she'll get what she wants, as she inevitably does, and she'll be the happiest girl there is.

July and August passed by smoothly and before Quinn could properly digest it, high school had come. To think, Quinn had devoted all of her middle school years to all the right parties, right friends, right crushes and right cheer camps for this. This big, large institution filled with low IQ, blue collar bred losers.

She doesn't think it was worth it. As she stands before the large school, a mixture of disappointment and ambivalence overcame her. And she wishes to this date, oh she truly, honest to Christ wishes, that would have been the moment when she realized desire _is _the root of all suffering.

But it wasn't, for when she walked past the large doors and into the halls, her fleeting sadness disappeared when her desire to rule everything past these large doors kicks in. Just like she hoped it would.

No, it came later.

It came when the inevitable school bell rang and Quinn had finally found herself the _perfect _seat in her first period Math class. She was a master strategist in social situations. Anyone wishing to get enough exposure without derailing their education sits in the middle. It's a subconscious thing people take in. Sitting in the middle of everyone makes you the center of everyone. And before you know it, you're the center of attention. The center in which all revolved around, like planets to the flaming sun and now Quinn Fabray to her fellow freshmen.

She flexes her ankle, her Ralph Lauren ankle sock peaking out from her bleach white Pumas. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots an excessively large chest practically tempting her to look. Not out of attraction (although no one could deny the appeal of a large rack when she sat on a never rising pair of itty bitty titties) but out of curiosity. As much as her conservative upbringing would like to deny it, girls of darker reputation and personality did have a claim to the top of the social ladder. Finally, her hazel eyes cast upon the eye-catching bosom with as much subtlety as possible.

They belonged to an equally eye-catching girl. Not necessarily the classic, timeless beauty Quinn prided herself in being, but pretty in her own right. She's accessibly beautiful. This girl had the kind of beauty that could be found in every other page of Seventeen magazine or primetime hours of the CW. She is a Hollywood actress in terms of beauty-commercial and passé. And Quinn? Quinn was Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly. Quinn was a real life Mona Lisa, a modernized Juliet. Quinn was vivid literature to this stranger's BluRay DVD movie. Both contradicted and complimented the other, fighting for number one.

Of course, Quinn knew _she_ was number one.

Because, in the grand scheme of things, Kim Kardashian pales in comparison to Marilyn Monroe.

It takes two minutes of subtle glances and mental check lists for her to decide this girl, the movie to her book, the Kardashian to her Monroe, would be a suitable second-in-command.

Queen Bees needed worker bees, and noticeably yet not gravely less attractive girls made the perfect worker bees.

"I'm Quinn. Quinn Fabray," she extended her hand, making sure to flash the brand new ruby red ring mommy got her for her confirmation just a few months ago. It was a gem, much like her, and needed to be respected and admired. Quinn had a thing for, well, things. Materialistic, self-obsessed and vain; a classic Fabray.

"Santana Lopez," the Latina takes her hand and grips it tightly. A little too tightly. The girl measures her up with her stone cold, brown eyes. Finally, she gives a quick nod and releases her tight grip. As if she had evaluated her character by a simple once over and how she hadn't flinched at her tight grasp. This Santana Lopez character doesn't bend easily.

"I'm Rachel Barbara Berry," a high-pitched, overly enthusiastic voice breaks the wordless meeting of her and her potential lackie. Quinn's eyebrows shot up; just enough to give off an air of importance but not enough to completely make enemies on her first day. Both she and Santana's gazes move to a short, dark-hared girl staring at them expectantly.

"Oh?" asked Quinn, her sarcasm lost on this Rachel girl.

"Did you get dressed in the dark or did they run out of tarps in the shire? Either way, you look about as fashionable as a bird without its feathers," quipped Santana harshly. Quinn doesn't find it coincidental in the slightest that a pack of girls had seated themselves behind her, already alert at the sight of a fascinating, "popular" girl in the making.

The beauty of high school.

"Now, Tana, let's not be too harsh," soothed Quinn. Rachel's eyes widen in slight relief, contrasting with her flushed cheeks.

"It's not her fault her beak blocks her vision. We can't all be born human." It was the first of the many harsh insults Quinn would say to Rachel Berry, with a stone-cold face and a wry smirk to match.

Santana laughs, the wannabees follow, and Rachel finds the door.

It was a pattern that would transcend through semesters.

And then it came. That defining, life altering, all too cliché moment for the Quinn Fabray chronicles. The game changer.

Dark brown eyes, filled with indignant rage and pity, are the first to catch Quinn's hazel eyes. It's all she sees for a few milliseconds. They're filled with diamonds and fire. Her eyes drift to his cheeks and his nose and his chin, and finally she takes in his face as a whole. Oh God, his face was even more glorious when completely taken in as opposed to pieces.

Some people remember dates; anniversaries, birthdays and holidays. Some people remember moments; like one's first sip of alcohol or vacation to the beach. And Quinn? Quinn remembers this.

Since this moment, she cannot remember anything before or after it.

All she remembers of her life, of herself, is this moment.

The moment when she sees _him_.

And she cannot help but wonder, how on fucking Earth and heaven and hell and Mars did she even care for any memory before him? How would she remember anything after him?

She's a girl hell bent on being her _own_ girl; free to sail the seas as her own captain and take on adventures without being weighed down. And boys?

They were anchors, who weighed you down with their lustful gazes and empty promises and the need to play prince charming without committing to it. They're about as valuable as pennies and sturdy as tissue paper. Others planned for their leading man to stumble into their lives and play out an all too cliché 80's teen movie whereas Quinn planned for her rise to the top of the social and Cheerio pyramid.

Good thing, too, because planning for mere boys would be worthless.

This isn't some boy.

This is _the _boy.

For some unfathomable reason, seeing him reminds her of Romeo and Juliet. She recalls laying down mommy Judy's lap, braiding bits of her sunflower hair as she recited passages from Shakespeare's famous love story. And although Quinn appreciates all things literature, from poets like Edgar Allan Poe to the sweet words of Jane Austen, and praises Shakespeare most highly, the whole idea of falling in love for what seems like a fleeting moment? Highly unrealistic.

Until now.

She knows just how pathetic this entire ordeal may seem to any unbiased, third party observer. Maybe it is. But when you're thirteen, you really don't give a rat's ass for how pathetic you are for just falling in love.

"Nice," his voice is fiery and silky, like sweet tasting honey. Of course, the ever-narcissistic blonde doesn't hear the harshness and anger in his voice. She just hears the tone, the notes and gets lost in it. Like a sweet melody. Her sweet melody.

"I'm Quinn," she choked out, not at all masking the awestruck expression on her typically calm and collected face. Her face broke out into a quick, natural grin. Quinn smirked. Quinn smiled. But Quinn never grinned. She never felt such desire for someone, for anything.

"And you are?" she presses on.

"Mike,"

"Beautiful name," the sound of Santana snorting from behind her didn't escape her. She's very well aware her flirting techniques were far from developed, but she'd do anything, say anything, to get her point across. He watched her, eyes shifting from her own hazel orbs to those around her before finally back at her.

"Are you hitting on me?"

"Simply put; yes"

"Dumb blonde," and he walked away, and to this date, he walks away.

In that moment, the first of seven hundred or more, the ever devout Christian truly believes when the Buddhists say that desire is the root of all suffering.

Because for the past three years, Quinn Fabray has done nothing but suffer from her desire for Mike Chang.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yes, I am truly back with another Fabang fic! I wonder if I'll ever get enough of these two. This is probably completely different from my other Fabang stories. As you can clearly tell, Quinn is incredibly unlikable. She's vain and a bully and full of herself, and just waiting to be developed through the next few chapters. A few couples have inspired this. For one, there's the book Flipped which you should definitely read as well as James/Lily from the Harry Potter fandom. I love the idea of Quinn being the one to pursue Mike and do so in such a comical if not slightly deranged manner. Note that this was written in her point of view, and Quinn is a crazy romantic, hence it being far more dramatic and sentimental than it would typically be. I've got a rough idea for where this story will lead to, but for now, take the prologue!

**I love reviews :)**


	2. The Effect

The Effect

* * *

There's little to be said for the intellectual capacity of the students in William McKinley High School. Now, Mike Chang isn't a snob by any means. He's inclusive and understanding, the foil of the very word 'snob.' But he can't deny the lack of intellectual depth of the people around him. They aren't stereotypically dumb like the insipid American stereotypes others deem upon small town folk like himself. Mike is positive that in their own right, they're knowledgeable. Finn Hudson, for example. He may not be the smartest tool in the shed, but his knowledge of the NFL is exceptionable.

But the matter still stands; no one makes for the mentally stimulating conversation.

The thing about Mike Chang is that, although he's a rather well read, mature boy for his age, he doesn't thrive on proving it to others. The truly intelligent don't go around spewing large words for the sake of showing others up. They don't talk about how "stupid" other people are. They sit and they exist and they hone it to themselves.

And that's what Mike does. He doesn't raise his hand every chance he gets, like his best friend, the ever-intense Rachel Berry, to offer his opinion on the second world war. He doesn't brag about his straight-A average. Mike keeps to himself, for if one is truly "smart" in both conventional and unconventional ways, there isn't anything to prove.

In some way, Mike's anonymity proves to be beneficial. Because he gets to do his passion; observe.

Mike is born to dance. He's born to move and to twist and to turn to the rhythm of music. It's in his DNA almost. His passion and obsession with dance isn't a choice, although he sometimes wishes it would be. It would certainly make casting his life off as a pre-med student at Stanford of a pre-law undergraduate at Harvard easier. But it's who he is, and you can't fight who you are. Dance is natural to him, much like breathing or eating. Without it, he won't survive. Observing, on the other hand, is something he's come to love.

He started off observing cartoons at a young age. Why did Swiper stop at "Swiper no swiping?" Why did movies like Beauty and the Beast demonize Gaston for simply wanting what he wants and getting it? Why did the Beast have to transform into a handsome prince? Isn't the entire basis of the movie to show that appearances don't hold a candle to true love?

Then, as high school came rolling around, he moved onto people. There's something intriguing about their nature; why they do things, how they do things and what it ultimately means. It was all mind boggling and fascinating to him, and he was somewhat convinced that if his parents didn't come around to dance, they should at the very least come around to the idea of psychology. Mike's got almost everyone figured out, from the reasons behind Santana's insults to Rachel's obsession with attention and even to Sue Sylvester's cruelty.

All except for one: Quinn Fabray.

Mike liked to think people were like jigsaw puzzles. Each action, each word was a piece that fits the entire person, that makes them. They're all challenging, but each pierce fit with the others, and made for an eventual understanding of it as a whole.

But Quinn Fabray? There was no consistency. Each act she did, each word that came out of her big mouth, didn't fit with the others. She was a series of contradictions and lies and complexity. She was unsolvable, unobservable, and it drove Mike absolutely mad. He liked knowing people, knowing how they work. And with her, he didn't have a fucking clue.

Of course, her verging on pathological obsession with him didn't help either.

Maybe he ought to be glad. Everyone said he should be. She's Quinn Fabray. Half her characterization is being a sight for sore eyes, a true all-American beauty with her sunflower hair and expressing hazel eyes.

And yet…

Mike just didn't see the appeal.

Perhaps he was deranged; she had every single damn person just waiting for her to look down from her high horse and spread whatever golden glory she carried. She was the light in a tunnel, the silver lining. She was this sort of enigmatic beauty that gets men to run around in circles for her own sick pleasure. He should be dazzled that this girl, however stereotypically blonde she may be, was into him. And not just in a simple way, like fluttering her long eyelashes up at him on a given day or purposely hiking her Cheerio skirt up during practice, she's _into _him.

Quinn didn't hide behind her posse or try and make him jealous using her two bodyguards, Sam Evans and Noah "Puck" Puckerman. She said it, and said it loud. Every single day, she came onto him. More often than not, she did so in an exceedingly obnoxious manner.

"You. Me. Breadsticks,"

"Come on, Chang. You'll have to give in eventually."

"You're a dancer, I'm a cheer leader. Just imagine all the possibilities." (That line in particular sent a crimson blush to his cheeks for _weeks_)

It was sweet at first. Because hell, he was the quiet boy with the passable looks and this girl, who clearly knew she was gorgeous and used it to her advantage, wanted him. And the warranty lasted for, what, eight minutes? Flattery transformed into irritation and eventually indignant rage. How could she put on a sweet façade for him, and abuse his best friend, Rachel Berry?

Rachel Berry. His best friend. His polar opposite in every single way. She's the noise to his silence. She's the bright star to his darkness. She's the bravery to his cowardice. Their friendship was far from expected, but had developed after a camaraderie over their shared dislike for Queen Bee Fabray and her court of backstabbing, narcissistic bitches and assholes.

They were a pair, always have been, always will be. He knew her. God, did he _know_ her. He knew what drove her; Broadway, stardom and this need for gratification. Mike knew of her ruthlessness in those crossroad moments. He knew that she could easily slit someone's throat for a solo on Broadway, and wouldn't even apologize while doing it. He knew of her nature, and yet he doesn't find it at all grotesque. Because she did it for her dreams.

She stabbed backs and shattered dreams because damn it, she was made for Broadway, and everything else was just a means to an end. It was inspiring to someone like Mike, who apologized daily for having dreams that don't include medicine or law and would shy away from it to the best of his ability.

And to see Quinn torture her, with cold choice words and even colder actions, kills him. How could she live with herself? How could she look in the mirror and see nothing but her beauty, and ignore the cruelty she bestowed on Rachel? Why Rachel? Why not Artie Abrams or Mercedes Jones? And what made him different to her? Why did she do it? Why did she bully the spirit out of Rachel? Insecurity and jealousy would be too simple, that was for sure.

It proved exactly what Mike meant. He could never figure her out. She said the worst things not just to Rachel, but to others she deemed unworthy, and yet said the sweetest things to him. Her puzzle pieces never fit together, and for someone who loved consistency, it drove him mad.

She's driving him mad.

And on a particularly chilly day mid-November, she continues to push her luck. Mike foolishly believed that her crush was just that, _a crush_. It would fizzle over time. She was thirteen and clueless, how devoted could she be to one guy before his constant rejections finally swayed her to someone else's arm? Turns out, she's more stubborn than he gives her credit for.

He runs; she chases.

He says no; she says yes.

He rejects; she pursues.

The girl just couldn't take a damn hint.

"Hey Mikey!" he pauses mid-step, eyes darkening at the all too familiar voice of one Quinn Fabray. Third period had just ended, and thanks to the overload of classes his parents forced him to take last year, he was able to afford himself a spare. One period each day away from the hell hole that is school, and the queen of persistent affection, Quinn Fabray.

"Fabray," is all Mike says, quickening his pace through the North Hall, adjusting his red Jansport backpack against his broad shoulder.

"You know, it isn't polite to walk away from someone," Quinn comments slyly, the flirtatious, cocky smirk not at all lost on Mike.

"Neither is dumping slushies on their face," Mike grumbles. He had seen it first hand, the red and blue slushies belonging to Santana Lopez and the very blonde currently tailing him landing on Rachel's face. He walks out to the parking lot, shivering as the cold breeze slams against his skin. Quinn follows in suit, her high ponytail swishing behind her.

"Well if it's any consolation, the red in that slushie matched her hideous animal sweater," she supplies, barely flickering at the hostility he was exuding. He can't help but wonder if she's truly tone deaf or if she just doesn't care. Whichever one it may be, he fidgets uncomfortably, the all too familiar feel of the Quinn Fabray effect beginning to take its toll on him.

It's something he came up with during sophomore year. With Rachel, this yin and yang-esque feel over comes him. The kind you get when you meet someone so different from you, you're boggled that you two would even come together. With his parents, he's a robot. Unlike his true self, he has no movement. Just constrained to follow whatever program has been set. Always stagnant.

With Quinn, it's an entirely different, indescribable effect. He hates how he feels around her, like he can't breathe. No. Not _like_. He can't. He can't breathe. He's positively breathless, and one day, it'll catch up with him and he'll crack. Mike knows it's all just a matter of time.

"Yes, Fabray. Excellent way to justify your bullshit," Mike says curtly, already prepared to find his way into his Honda Civic and drive away.

"It was just a stupid little joke,"

"You know you remind me of the tin man from the Wizard of Oz," he mentions, glancing at her with irritation and backhanded snarkiness.

"Why's that?"

"You're heartless."

"There's no denying that." Says Quinn, completely confident and completely engrossed in their conversation. Admittedly, it's one of the longest conversations they've had since the school year began. Between graduation prep and their respective AP classes squeezing the life out of them, Quinn's hot pursuit for him has degraded a tad. Now if only it would diminish into nothingness.

"Why not?"

"Because you've stolen my heart," leave it to her to almost always have a romantic quip in her back pocket.

"How long did it take you to come up with that one?" Mike asks, feigning boredom as he strides through three lanes of cars.

"Dashboard Confessional, Mikey"

"I didn't know your musical taste ranged past Hey Mickey or One Direction," and it's true. He has heard Santana and the rest of her Cheerios singing those songs, loudly and off beat, with her chiming in with some sort of harmony.

"Now, now… Why are you being so mean?" the sunflower blonde asks, blinking her eyes,

"You slushied my _friend_. You're not on much of a pedestal to call me mean." He unlocks his car door, just about to open it himself when Quinn sprints forward, opening it for him with a playful glint in her hazel eyes. At this point, he can't prevent himself from rolling his eyes.

"Really? You're that girl? The one who opens doors for boys?" Mike asks with disbelief, his eyebrows shooting up. Quinn does nothing but cock her head coyly to the side, not-so-subtly allowing him to catch a wiff of her admittedly delightfully scented locks.

"_No_," she drawls. "I'm the girl who opens doors for the love of her life," he scoffs, perhaps a bit more coldly than he should have. But he's heard it all before, and it's becoming redundant.

"You crossed romantic and went right into corny,"

"We could all use a bit of corny in our lives, _honey_" and there it is, his nickname. He doesn't know _when_ Quinn decided to call him honey, over other conventional pet names like darling or baby, but for some reason it's all she ever calls him when she's either trying to woo him or seduce him.

Mike turns to her, his dark brown eyes staring right into those expressive hazel eyes. They're filled with arrogance and vanity, and so long as he's Mike Chang and she's Quinn Fabray, hell would sooner freeze over before he ever gives them a chance.

"What are you, Winnie the Pooh? Got some sort of honey fetish?" he asks quietly, studying her face carefully. Their bodies are close, a good few feet away from each other. Just enough to feel each other's vibes radiating off the other.

"Not exactly," is all she says, staring back at him with a sweetness in her eyes that only makes him shift with slight discomfort. It's unnerving, seeing her ice cold glare directed towards everyone else and then a fiery, passionate gaze in less than one afternoon.

"What exactly then?"

"I'm Quinn and I've got a Mike fetish," she hovers close to him, just enough for him to feel her body ever so slightly. And in that same exact moment, she pulls away, her smarmy smirk perfectly intact. The blonde turns her heel, her white Pumas squeaking against the parking lot ground.

"Isn't this the part where you ask me out?" Mike can't help but ask. It's a pattern she's developed and she's now breaking, proving yet again just how unpredictable and unsolvable a puzzle she truly is.

She only chuckles, making sure her hips sway side-to-side much like a Stallion, and continues to walk away.

"No. This is the part where I walk away,"

"Aren't we theatrical?" Mike muses, unable to hold back a slight smirk.

"That's one way of putting it," she teases in response. "Let's just say I'm changing my methods," Quinn says, turning her head slightly over her shoulder.

"Why?" asks the dark-haired dancer, curiosity piqued.

"Because it's our last year and I fully intend to _finally_ get what I want…" Quinn trails off, lifting up her right hand and gesturing to him. "You."

"Good luck with that," answers Mike sarcastically, boarding the driver's seat and buckling himself in. Silly Quinn. Silly Quinn Fabray. She's wanted him for three years, and he's wanted nothing to do with her for equally as long. That won't be changing anytime soon. As he drums his fingers against the wheel, his dark brown eyes look through the glass, just watching her retreating figure long enough to watch her disappear back into McKinley.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Reviews are always welcome! And suggestions!


	3. The Companions

The Companions

* * *

The dynamics of the quadruple mayhem (which Puck, in an effort to dumb down Quinn's all-too complicated group name, calls quayhem) was a complex one. Each component of the group had their own specialty, their own niche.

Sam Evans was the heart. He wore it on his letterman jacket sleeve; always grinning, always laughing, always affectionate. There was no gloom or doom in his word, just rays of sunshine and a new bag of Doritos almost every hour.

Noah "Puck" Puckerman was the brawn. Time in juvie mixed with his general athleticism and intimidating façade made him feared in both the halls of McKinley and the streets of Lima, Ohio.

Santana Lopez was the detector. From who slept with whom to who dumped whom; she knew it all. She could hear hushed confessions from a mile away, and could certainly detect things that weren't being said.

And lastly, there was Quinn Fabray, the brains. Not only did she excel in all of her AP classes, she excelled in the art of outsmarting her opponents. She knew exactly how to shift her eyes and pout her lips and what witty remark to use at a given moment.

And together, they made the quayhem. Quinn can't recall when it happened, this unholy alliance between them four. Somewhere between Cheerio try-outs and the Titan's first game to Puck and Sam, coincidentally enough, opting to ask Quinn out at the exact same second; they found one another.

It began with her and Santana. Since that all too memorable moment during freshman year, although granted Quinn only really remembers it because of Mike, they were inseparable. Quinn was the glorious words inscribed in pages to Santana's clean-cut, Hollywood movie. They complimented each other, challenged each other. It was this constant sportsmanlike competition between the two. Granted, there were several moments when the competition got a tad bit too competitive, and harsh words would be traded. But they never did or said anything to hurt the other. Because above their own respective narcissism was this level of respect beyond their own perception.

Then came Sam and Puck. Puck and Sam. Another pair of polar opposites finding friendship with one another. They bonded over Football and Mario Kart, but not much over anything else. Puck's specialties included alcohol and crime whereas Sam was drawn to comic books and Avatar. But somehow, someway; they worked.

Before Quinn could even comprehend _what_ was happening, they became a foursome. Never knowing where one ends and the other begins. Heartfelt Sam, bad boy Puck, domineering Santana and crazy Quinn. The differences made them close, and this unspoken bond made them closer.

With Santana, Quinn is empowered.

With Puck, Quinn is reckless.

With Sam, Quinn is kind.

And just like they all changed her, she changed them. They changed each other. They all connected, and not one was valued over the other.

Mike may be, for all of Quinn's hopeless romantic purposes, the love of her life. But the quayhem just fit, always finding their way to each other.

But it isn't thoughts of their friendship that are plaguing her mind at this very second, but Michael Chang. Michael fucking Chang.

Mike does this thing with his eyelashes, Quinn observes one surprisingly warm November day. She sits two to three desks away from him; him at the upper right corner looking from the back of the classroom and she at the smack center; second row, second lane. But he could be in Mrs. Callaghan's AP philosophy class just across from this very class or even Mr. Peterson's AP biology class at the other hall and she would still be observing him. In her mind, at least.

She should be paying attention to Mister Schuester's lesson on irregular verbs, something Quinn's aware would be a short answer question on the upcoming test. And considering college applications were right around the corner, it was her obligation as an over-achieving senior to be latched onto every word dripping from Mr. Schues' mouth.

But she can't, because of those damned eyelashes.

They're long and thick, a mesmerizing shade of black, the blonde-haired Cheerio observes from afar. Every couple of seconds, Mike's fingers would take a break from writing, in what she knows to be his usual chicken scratch, and finger his lashes. He stretches through them, from the base to the tips, as if he was combing through them.

She finds it positively adorable.

She wonders if there's some double meaning behind it. Did he do it just so she would look? Probably not, since apart from their encounter in the parking lot, his last words towards her via Facebook chat were; "take a picture, it'll last longer."

Quinn sighs, her index finger running down the page of her Spanish textbook. She forces herself to look away from the boy with the eyelashes that ran on for miles and up towards Mr. Schue.

Mr. Schues' eyelashes only run for meters.

The blonde listens, she even goes as far as to pick up her pen and begin writing down some of the words on the board, until eventually and unconsciously, her grip on the pen loosens and her hazel eyes move right back to him.

Typically, it's Santana Lopez who catches her staring, a bit too hopefully and romantically, and shakes her until she forces herself to look away. But this time, Noah "Puck" Puckerman, who occupies the seat right behind her, catches her dreamy gaze and opts to throw his miniature paper plane right at the tip of her high ponytail.

"B," he whispers loudly. The three call her B for three main reasons:

She's _B_: the head _bitch_ of McKinley High School.

She's _B: _Queen _bee_ of McKinley High School.

She's _B: _ the most _beautiful_ girl he's ever met.

Granted, they've only ever used the last reason whenever they're either drunk or Quinn's gotten into another one of two-second Mike Chang induced funks, but it's a far more pleasant reason than her being a bitch (or as Santana likes to say, "Chang's bitch) or being queen bee.

"Pukey," Quinn grumbles, voice silent as she fiddles with the tip of the airplane's narrow tip now stuck in the knot in her hair. "You got it stuck in my hair,"

"And your eyes are stuck on him," Puck states matter-of-factly.

"Jealous?" teases Quinn, eyes fixed on Mike as she speaks to him.

"Over the fact that you stalk him?"

"I don't stalk him," she reasons.

"All you're missing is a trench coat, shades and a criminal record," Sam Evans pipes in, sitting on Quinn's left.

"Balls knows what's up," Puck exclaims, his nickname for the big lipped boy who could "fit ten tennis balls in that black hole" being exclaimed louder than it should have been. Mister Schuester sends them a stern look before turning back to the board, conjugating the word Artie Abrams inquired about.

"It's romantic, Pukey" Santana pipes in, attention drawn away from the horribly sketched image of Ellen DeGeneres on Draw Something to her three companions.

"About as romantic as you dry humping me during Hudson's party, tits" replies the boy with the Mohawk, winking saucily at the Latina. Just as Sam's nickname referred to his most prominent characteristic, Santana's refers to hers. Of course, Santana being the self-proclaimed hot mess that she is, relishes it rather than fights it than the all-too sweet Sam.

"Am I the only one who's offended by all these names?" asks Sam, looking from Santana to Quinn and back to Puck.

"You all call me Pukey!"

"When I first me you, you were being _pukey_," says Santana, a mocking smirk that's infamous through the halls of McKinley directed towards her friend and partner in crime.

"Pukey isn't a word, tits" says Puck.

"Here's two: shut up," hisses Quinn, hazel eyes avoiding another reprimanding gaze Mr. Schuester sends in her direction. She slinks down her seat ever so slightly, thoughts of her friends' banter lost on her when Mike stretches his back, arching it just enough for his muscular arms to flex and make her eyes dilate in absolute interest and slight awe.

"As soon as you stop gawking…" Puck trails off, glaring at Quinn in annoyance. Putting up with her hopeless pursuit for Mike must have gotten tiresome, Quinn acknowledges, but it's not like she could stop it.

There's a thin line between desire and obsession. Unfortunately for Quinn, she's long passed the line and become a resident of the world of obsession, if not the queen of it.

"Do you even know what gawking means?" she returns half-heartedly, eyes still transfixed on the muscles across Mike's arms.

"Do you even know what sex means Miss Virgin Pure?" Quinn only returns his statement with a weak, two-second glare before turning her attention back to Mike's now hunched backed figure over his notes.

"She quit the celibacy club." Sam defends rationally. Leave it to Ken to defend his Barbie. Even if said Barbie is more like his twin sister than the girl he'd like to share his dream house with or ride off into the California sunset with.

"And yet you're still a virgin" concludes Puck mockingly. Yet despite the bordering-on-hurtful words spewing out of his mouth, the mirthful, good natured and affectionate glimmer Quinn sees all too much prevents her from tearing him down with a few slick words.

"Just because I don't hand out my popsicle to ever-" Quinn starts pointedly, tirade interrupted by Puck.

"Is that a euphemism for my dick?" a wry smirk crosses his face as he nudges the blonde's back.

"Where are you getting all these words?" asks Sam curiously.

"iPhone thesaurus" brags Puck, holding up his iPhone for the three to see, as if it is the most glorious invention to man kind.

Then again, it has him using words like gawking and euphemism. Maybe it is.

"Pukey," Quinn hisses.

"B," replies Puck sarcastically.

"Pukey," Santana says.

"Tits." Puck says back.

"Tits." Sam intervenes, breaking the daggers being sent between Puck and Santana.

"Balls." Quinn says, glaring right at Sam.

"_All_ I'm saying is that it's gotta get old for him eventually; this whole sexy but psycho thing you've got for him."

"You think it's sexy?"

"I think _you're_ sexy, B. But this whole creepy crush thing? It's more along the lines of, well…" Puck trails off.

"Creepy." Sam supplies.

"It's romantic." She defends. Did no one understand romanticism anymore? Is anything beyond a fleeting crush and one's pants down their ankles creepy now?

"You crossed romantic and went into corny." Puck counters.

"Funny considering he said that to me." She says, a bright smile taking over her face.

"Maybe we're onto something, B" Santana pipes, staring at her longtime best friend with a look of concern mixed with pity.

"Is it _so_ wrong to want someone?" she asks them all.

"B, Chang's not going to come around." Sam says soothingly.

"You don't believe in me?"

"B, maybe it's time you just gave up. You can't always get what you want and-" but she has already toned them out, eyes wide with glee as the school bell rings and the five-minute interval for Quinn to get some time with Mike presents itself. Ignoring the three completely, she gestures to her books and her open pencil case. "Take it to my next class."

* * *

The topic of college has been programmed into Mike Chang's mind since before he could remember. He bets that he subconsciously knew of the word college and its implications as a baby boy. He's sure that somewhere between his mother's Chinese lullabies and Dragon Ball Z, they rocked him to bed with a song about college. And if not college, something along the lines of Ivy League or surgeon. Something largely intellectual and largely tedious.

They'd talk about it almost every other day. Sometimes off handedly, like his mother boasting about Stanford's excellent dorm rooms which she stayed in during her first four years as a chemistry major. Other times, more directly. Such as his father purchasing him a Harvard sweatshirt as a way to push him to excellence.

As senior year came rolling around, subtlety and frequency rolled out the window. Every second of every hour from five in the afternoon to midnight, they'd speak of the future Mike had in becoming one the world's most intellectual men of the twenty-first century.

So to have Rachel Berry, his sole companion in the shark infested halls of McKinley, yammering on and on about New York and Broadway and potential colleges, is the least bit interesting.

"What do you think, Mike?" she asks him, eyes wide and expectant. Her eyes shine with absolute enthusiasm, and Mike wonders if he's ever showed that much enthusiasm for anything.

He loves to dance. He's born to dance. He's genetically programmed to dance. It's more than a hobby, even more than a passion; it's an organ. His anatomy wouldn't function without it. But Mike doesn't allow himself the luxury of wanting it, for if he does, he knows it's not his heart that will be broken, but his parents'.

Mike can't help but wonder if all children were born with a Stockholm Syndrome-esque relationship with their parents.

"About?"

"Weren't you listening?" Rachel says, tone edgy as she stares at him in mild hurt and irritation. Quickly recovering from the self-induced ear plugs he's given himself, he refocuses on her, chuckling to soothe the dragon just about ready to leap out from her.

"Of course I was."

"What was the last thing I said?" he scrambles for an answer, thinking back to the last thing she said prior to him tuning her out. Something about college. And what else? College and what else? Oh, right! New York. Yes, it's always New York. Good. What are colleges in New York pertaining to music? NYU? Julliard. There we go. Julliard.

"Something about Julliard!" he exclaims triumphantly, grinning smugly as Rachel's pointed gaze falters in overly-dramatized shame.

"Show off,"

"Don't pout, Jewberry" says Mike, slinging his long arm around the girl's petite figure and scrunching her close to him, almost tripping her with his wobbly, unsteady legs.

"Am not pouting."

"Just doing a half-suck." Retorts the dark-haired boy, turning to the next hallway and avoiding a large group of jocks throwing a basketball from one end to another.

"Half-suck?"

"It's like you're sucking, but because it's only part of your lip that's out, it's a half-suck." Mike rationalizes, watching as Rachel's bewildered expression slowly cracks into a gentle smile, just like he knew it would.

It's what he adores about Rachel. However tactless she may be from time-to-time, regardless of how irritating, she is predictable. She is calculable. Mike could almost always know what words would flow from her mouth or what expressions she would have radiating off her face. It's this constant assurance that although wildcards like the unintentional Quinn Fabray existed, the variables to life's equation, there would always be Rachel Berry. The girl who would forever be predictable and forever calculable.

"But seriously though," Rachel begins. "What do you think? Me in Julliard?"

"You mean surrounded by a bunch of desperate wannabe-Barbara's killing each other by singing '_Don't Rain On My Parade'_ off tune?" the Jewish girl scowls at his indifference, making a huffing sound before shrugging. Mike believes it to be convincing enough to conceal the look of interest and longing he knows is flashing from his eyes. Luckily, Rachel never caught on.

"Julliard is a beautiful place."

"Then go; what's stopping you?"

"Nothing! Not even the one student per school limit." At this, the dark-haired boy can't help but blink once before stuttering for a cool response. No. Stanford. Harvard. Yale. Darthmouth. Ivy League. Medical school. Law school. Engineering. Economics.

His future is clinical trials or immigration law suits; not Carnegie Hall.

"That's legit?"

"Legitimate, Michael. Never shorten words. It's rather plebeian," she chides, crashing her elbow against his ribs ever so slightly.

"Fine, that's legitimate?" she nods.

"Well I don't think anyone from here is applying…"

"Except that falsetto in Glee club with me," snaps Rachel, eyes wide with worry and intensity. Classic Rachel.

"You mean Kurt Hummel?"

"Exactly."

"I didn't even know he was-"

"Regardless, I'll make sure to convince him otherwise." And there it is, the true nature of one Rachel Berry. He's long accepted that his best friend's competitive spirit went beyond ambition and right into unapologetic selfishness. So long as she doesn't burn him with her own fire, Mike won't plan to tear her confidence down anymore than Quinn Fabray and her band of brothers do on a daily basis.

"You're insane."

"Maybe so, but you love me," replies Rachel.

"Like you don't love me?" inquires Mike pointedly.

"Miss Bitchbray does," groaning, Mike untangles his arms away from Rachel and drags his feet, mocking a child strewn around the women's department store.

"Don't," is all Mike manages to say.

"Oh come on, if you don't want to talk about the content of my future coffee table autobiography, at least let me talk about Miss Bitchbray!" exclaims Rachel jovially, clapping her hands together. "I saw her staring at you in Spanish…" Rachel continues, staring at Mike pointedly.

"What's new?" asks Mike rhetorically, approaching his locker. Third from the United Nations poster on the top level, exactly where it has been since freshman year.

"Nothing, I guess." Pausing, Rachel fiddles with the lock beside Mike's, twisting it with her manicured fingers before chuckling to herself. "God, she needs to get a life," moans Rachel, resting her back against the metal. He can only chuckle in response. Their conversations consisting Quinn Fabray and her endless, tooth achingly cheesy pursuit of him were frequent. Right up there with Broadway and gold stars.

"Because mediocre covers of Streisand and LuPone on MySpace daily is a semblance of a life?" Immediately, both Rachel and Mike are on high alert, whipping around simultaneously at the platinum haired girl with her signature Cheerio uniform identifying her as another bee of McKinley: buzzing and stinging everyone in sight. She stands before the, one leg crossed over the other, elegantly plucked eyebrows raised up as her hazel eyes shift back and forth from Rachel to Mike.

As per every single time Mike even considers looking at Quinn, he makes sure to take a good look at her eyes. However convincing the rest of her face may be, her eyes always give off some semblance of what's going on in her mind. It may not be as clear as Rachel's or as consistent, but it's the only window to her soulless being, and he takes it whenever he can.

"Enter stage left; Quinn Fabray. Characterization? Shallow, desperate blonde with stereotypical insecurity issues," Rachel hisses vehemently. Since before Mike could recall, even prior to his and Quinn's first encounter, there was a tiff between the two. To say that they were merely polar opposites; one basing their life on the notes their voice can hit while the other on how many heads she can turn with one whip of her hair, would be too simple. No. Two girls of differentiating complexity were never that simple.

It's too simple to say that Quinn detests Rachel and Rachel disregards Quinn because of the status differences.

It's too simple to say that Quinn got a sick, twisted pleasure out of inflicting torture and Rachel is just an underdog taking the hits, like a martyr in a tragic heroine movie.

It's too simple to say that it's because of a boy, because however devoted Quinn may be to him and however much Rachel enjoys having something Quinn doesn't, they've been at each other's throats before him.

So what was it?

And yet another question to add to the long list of inquiries Mike has on the combusting mass of complexity that is Quinn.

"Exit stage right; Rachel Berry. Characterization? Walking, talking freak chemical reaction that infested primarily in the nose… And the eyes… And the face… And everywhere," Quinn says, scrunching her face together mockingly, her hazel eyes shifting coldly and threateningly from Rachel's left eye to her right eye. She searches for a challenge, and although Mike can already feel Rachel's wheels turning, Quinn's long dismissed her with one final sneer.

"Have fun with Miss Bitchbray," defaults Rachel, moving away only for Quinn to usurp her spot.

"That was completely necessary." The sarcasm radiates from Mike's tone, turning his attention back to the contents of his backpack. He rests it against his knee, holding it up against the wall as he reaches inside the locker. Mike shifts his knee uncomfortably, the balance creating for a rather difficult position. It's not long before Quinn merely grabs his bag, unzipping the top and opening the flap down for him.

"Just like you dismantling that little anti-pork chop toxic asset from your back. She's on you 24/7" Quinn continues, rolling her eyes.

"_She's_ on me all the time? Says the girl who just followed me to my locker," Mike retorts pointedly.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Makes one of us, Fabray."

"Again with the meanness. You'll catch more flies with honey than you will with vinegar," she lingers close to him now, and he swears he can feel her calf against his. The temptation to look grows, and his dark eyes shift down to their legs. Quinn's bare calf remains right where it always has been; beside her other calf. She never touched him.

_Damn Quinn Fabray effect._

"I thought I already had you," he says, barely thinking twice about his words. He can feel Quinn's eyes light up, like a Christmas tree or the lasers at lasetag, and suddenly the darkness within his locker seems much more promising than the smug smirk overtaking her face.

"I'm going to be late," Mike announces quickly, grabbing his half-open backpack from Quinn. He doesn't want to see her shimmering eyes or boastful smirk or feel, at least in a psychological sense, her calf rubbing up against him.

"I couldn't help but overhear that little chat you two were having. Or her chattering and you just being your typical doe-eyed little stunner you are,"

"Fabray," he snaps sternly.

"Julliard, huh?" Quinn presses on, following him in similar strides as they walk down the hallway together, people almost instantly parting at the sight of the infamous queen bee. Not to mention, almost everyone found it amusing, this whole debacle between himself and Quinn. The constant push and pull and run and chase made for more than twenty juicy posts on Jacob Ben Israel's blog. Mike nods passively, speeding up. Chemistry is only ten doors away at this point.

"Here's what I'm thinking; you use me as your muse for your audition. Think about it, I'm a modern day Jackie O, a real like Mona Lisa…" she drones on, gesturing to herself like a sports car on those TV contests.

"Wait, what?" Word count wise, Rachel spews more words, but they were almost always along the same lines: stardom, Broadway and sometimes movies. It's easy toning her out, because chances are, all you've missed is a spiel on Evita. There's no toning Quinn out, because before you know it, the topic is old Hollywood or true love or honey and you're lost in her words.

"Come on, even you have to admit that I'm Muse material. I've got the whole enigmatic feel about me."

"Fabray," Mike trails off slowly.

"Just think about it, me resting along a chaise and you moving gracefully in the candlelit surroundings. It's very Jack and Rose, without the nudity… Unless, you know" Mike can practically _feel_ his eyes bulging out from his eye sockets. Every word this girl says is a fucking spectacle, and half the time he's struggling with his flabbergasted tongue to fully come up with a response equal to what's running through his mind.

"That's gross."

"You've never thought about it?" teases Quinn, searching his now stuttering, uncomfortable face for some truth to it.

"And you have?" Mike quickly interrupts her in a desperate attempt to avoid the inquiry all together. Now, he hasn't thought about it. Please, he's never thought of her in any way other than this bee that constantly stings Rachel with her words or buzzes him into positive irritation. Except for this one time.

And just thinking about it, that one unconscious fantasy he had during his junior year of high school, sends a shock through his body. If she ever catches a hint of this fact, either through his stuttering or the hasty, half-choked up response, Mike already feels a future of Quinn's eternal boasting lined up for him.

"Yes," she relents.

"I'm walking away now," he gestures down the hall. Chemistry is just five more doors at this point.

"Just consider it?" she pushes.

"Consider what?"

"My assistance."

"In re-enacting the Titanic?" asks Mike, scrunching his eyebrows together questioningly.

"No, honey, in helping you with your audition!" she says, nasally voice flatter than usual, as if is explaining to a five-year-old.

"Audition where?"

"Julliard."

"That's Rachel," Mike excuses. "Not me."

"Are you an idiot?" asks Quinn. There's no hostility in her tone, no condescending chime. Just pure disbelief.

"Not that I want to talk about this with _you_…" Mike trails off, playing with the buttons of his dark green plaid shirt. "But I'm not going to dance after high sc-"

"_You are an idiot!" _Quinn exclaims.

"It's just a hobby, and…" before Mike could continue on with his half-hearted justification, she interrupts him yet again.

"My idiocy alarm is tingling," is all Quinn says, crossing her arms disapprovingly. How dare she disapprove of him? How dare she just stumble into his conversations and get a rise out of him? How dare she just strike him with her words that always seem to hit him where it hurts?

"What?"

"Honey, I adore you. I _love_ you," sighing, she shakes her head, gesturing to the door of his Chemistry class. "But you're dense."

"I thought it was 'idiot'?"

"_Honey_," she snaps. "If you seriously believe you're meant to be a soulless automaton, I wonder what else you force yourself to believe to help you sleep at night," he thinks about it, and he quickly regrets it. He shouldn't think about it, the things he does and says to stop himself from seeing something other than the safe choice. If he does, he may realize that all those things are merely facades to deny this growing unhappiness in the pit of his stomach.

"It's none of your business," she's said worse things to him. Things regarding Rachel or things regarding his "denial." But never has Quinn said something to painfully accurate and vividly thoughtful that his last resort is walking away.

"'Course not," she murmurs sarcastically, gesturing into the classroom door. Just as Mike's about to walk in, he feels her hot breathe against his ear.

"It'll happen eventually, honey. Things that are meant to be, like Rachel and slushie facials, or you and dance or even you and I? They creep up on you, surprise you and before you know it, your resolve breaks and you've fallen deeply and truly," her words lack the usual playfulness and sweetness they usually carry. There's something in her eyes, in her tone, that Mike can tell truly believes what she says.

"It won't,"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm not particularly a huge fan of this chapter, nor do I feel like it's done a lot plot wise, but its necessary because it introduces three vital things to the plot: the quayhem, the Mike and Rachel friendship and Julliard. A lot of what will drive Quinn and Mike together is in this chapter, and it's important I touch base and just allow Fabang to have their cute and awkward little banters before I angst them up.

**Review!**


	4. The Dare

_The Dare_

* * *

Mike Chang is the boy behind the green fence.

As genetics usually do, Quinn Fabray has inherited traits from both of her high profile, highly religious parents. Quinn identifies with her daddy in all matters regarding social acceptance, power, manipulation and lust for all thing material and otherwise. But when it comes to matters of the heart, sole liability rests in the DNA of one Judy Fabray.

It began with dull afternoons devoted to Disney movies. They'd cuddle up in the large, yellow couch with fine embroidery and slip in a movie or two. Quinn's fairytale taste would range from Sleeping Beauty to Cinderella; beautiful blondes with beautiful men and the beautiful, easy love one inevitably finds. It was perfection in an hour long movie. Love triumphed over evil step mothers and wrathful witches.

It's only later, when Quinn progressed from more light-hearted Disney movies to those of Pocahontas and The Huncback of Notre Dame did she learn of a new kind of love. One that didn't rest on how much one's blonde tresses would shimmer in the air. One that didn't simply end with a sweet kiss. It ended with pain and yet with this understanding that love transcends through time and basic human conventions. That neither society nor faith could keep something so inevitable as true love from taking its truest, happiest course.

Movies transitioned to great literature, and Quinn learned what it meant to _love_. It's selfless and lacking in pride. But above all, it's worth it. Look at Romeo and Juliet, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett and hell, every other great love both fictional and non-fictional. The struggle and the strife all ended in eventual peace.

And that is why, to this very second of this very day, Mike Chang remains as the boy behind the green fence and not some petty crush that is long forgotten. He isn't the love of her life or her boyfriend. He isn't her friend. He doesn't even really take to her. He's just the boy behind the green fence of the four bedroom home on Leo Lane. He's just himself, the boy who always slipping through her fingers and always keeping her hanging on.

But tonight, she would break through that infamous green fence that has always symbolically kept her from him.

The plan of attack is simple; make him hers. She has no grand romantic gestures in store. She has no schemes. She didn't need them. With the coming of senior year, the final year, it's more than enough evidence that this year is their time. Throughout her three years of pining for him, she's excused his hesitance as fate's way of saying "not now." But come on, it's the last year. The last damn year and if she doesn't get him…

She shakes her head. No. There is no room for that. She has to have him. She _has_ to.

"B, we've done a lot of stupid shit together," begins Santana Lopez. The two sit in the dark blue, second hand Mazda car right underneath the only completely bright street light in the street. Santana exhales, tapping Quinn's shoulder to capture her full attention. "But this is just…"

"Just what?" asks the blonde-haired beauty, turning away from the sight of the green fence to the sight of her frazzled best friend staring at her with wary eyes.

"Pathetic? Stupid? I don't know, you're the walking thesaurus, not me!" fusses Santana, drumming her fingers along the leather wheel.

"We both know I can be pathetic and stupid and whatever else you think," Quinn excuses.

"Just… God, do you have to do this? Can't you just do what every normal girl does?" snaps Santana, glancing around the vacant car as if this isn't another one of Quinn's embarrassing pursuits but a high profile heist.

Knowing Santana, the latter would be better.

Despite Santana's ever growing scandalous reputation including partying, drinking and theft, she remains to be Quinn's most consistent companion in all things regarding Mike Chang. Although both Sam and Puck assist every now and again, they have long abandoned her once she began dabbling with verging on stalker-like acts of romance.

"And what's that?" inquires Quinn sarcastically.

"Flash him your itty bitty titties and offer him a blow job." Santana says matter-of-factly, grinning ear-to-ear as Quinn's face scrunches up in disturbance.

"That's disgusting."

"You've never thought of it?" Santana can't help but pry.

"Santana, I'm Audrey Hepburn! Grace Kelly! Marilyn Monroe! We don't fuck around. We sweep men off their feet! We are fucking leading ladies who don't have to whore around to find true love!" Quinn expresses dramatically, staring at Santana defiantly.

"I'm pretty sure Marilyn Monroe did. And wasn't Audrey Hepburn married, like, four times?" mutters the raven-haired girl calmly.

"I digress." Quinn decides simply, fingers already clasped around the door handle.

"All I'm saying is this is just weird," grumbles Santana.

"I put a bow on my head and hid under his Christmas tree last year. Does this seriously trump that?" asks Quinn, eyebrows raised pointedly.

"It could."

"Does that mean you're out?"

"Please, B. I'm always in. Never out." Santana's eyes drift away from Quinn to the oh-so interesting dashboard of her car.

"What are we talking about here?" Quinn searches the corner of Santana's eyes, watching her carefully.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" presses Quinn.

"Nothing."

And with that comes the heavy silence. Not silence of anger or dispute, but silence containing the words and emotions that should not and cannot be spoken. It's what Quinn finds most endearing about her friendship with the headstrong girl with the dark lashes and somewhat dark personality; the silence. She and Santana talk about everything, but mostly about nothing. Conversations are full with thoughts on celebrities or the taste of raspberry lipgloss to the lips. But those heartfelt moments, be it moments of sadness or moments of glee, are shared and expressed through silence.

Silence is louder than words can ever be.

"Did you at least wear a nice bra?" asks Santana, eyes finding their way back to Quinn's. Quinn can only stare at her, gauging her mind frame to the best of her ability. She knows of the internal struggle Santana's sexuality has brought upon her best friend. She knows of the longing stares directed towards Brittany Pierce, the only Cheerio who is somehow a cut above the immature practices of the rest of the squad. She knows of the "drunken" kisses and trysts. She knows of it all and more.

And she knows Santana. She knows her back and forth, left and right, in and out.

And so she decides to merely crack a grin and let out a honeyed laugh.

Silence is louder than words can ever be.

"Fine, go," says Santana nonchalantly, ignoring the knowing-yet-pretending-to-be-unknowing grin on her best friend's sparkling face. "Two hours?"

"Two hours."

* * *

"Michael, I am in crisis mode!" Rachel Berry's anxiety filled voice rings through the high-tech speakers of Mike Chang's iPhone. However many theatrics Rachel has in any given day, he can never quite get use to her voice blaring through the silence of his bedroom. He lives for the silence and she lives for the loud. He is the night sky and she is the star. This constant opposite effect that somehow has them attracting each other.

"Aren't you always in crisis mode?" he can only ask pointedly.

"_Michael!_" she hisses vehemently through the phone.

"Right. Yes. Crisis" says Mike, bobbing his head along as his slim fingers stretch through the wide, pearl white keyboard of his MacBook. Another one of his parents' several "educational" presents for him. Since the summer prior to senior year, its been "present" after "present." Despite the hidden agenda that is to permanently squash his _childish_ fantasies of becoming a dancer, he can't help but enjoy it.

Enjoying all the material goods that his parents' soulless careers have brought upon him makes him feel like a hypocrite. That is, until he reminds himself that he's already bound to the same path; Ivy league education, medical school/law school and a long and fruitful career with a line of Hugo Boss suits or scrubs.

Best welcome all the material assets that a life full of dissatisfaction and apathy can bring you.

"My song selection for my Julliard audition is pivotal to my success. The wrong choice could hinder my acceptance, put my inevitable Broadway career at risk and-"

"If it's inevitable, you have nothing to worry about." Mike interrupts her pointedly.

"Michael!" snaps Rachel.

"Okay, okay. What has made the cut so far?" sighs the dark-haired boy, continuing to scroll down the Wikipedia page for information on the Civil War. Unreliable resource, they say. Full of shit, they say. Blasphemy, they say. Yet regardless of _what_ they say, it's almost always the most convenient one. Especially at nine in the evening with approximately two hours left until his body clock inevitably catches up with him and he finds himself drooling against his desk.

"_Mama Who Bore Me _from Spring Awakening, _Popular_ from Wicked and _Don't Rain on My Parade_ from Funny Girl. Obviously, I could do Barbra in my sleep," lists Rachel over the phone, the familiar sound of her classic record player being tampered with ringing through his bedroom.

"Obviously," he mutters.

"But Spring Awakening makes me out to be more modern New York City Broadway ingénue!" she expresses passionately, fingers scratching the vinyl record ever so slightly. He cringes, nose scrunching up at the sound of it. _There's a goddamn reason people moved onto cassette tapes_, he thinks internally. Choosing to ignore the snide comment begging to be said, he merely continues on.

"And Popular?"

"I get to wear a sparkly pink dress and show to the world that I have commercial appeal and have comedy down." Rachel says matter-of-factly. He can almost visualize her head bobbing down in affirmation, her bangs swishing lightly against her forehead and her large, show grin dominating her face. Along with that familiar image is the light pink walls of her bedroom and the very sight of that awful record player.

"Why are you so quiet?" he doesn't realize he stopped talking. It's a general occurrence in most of their conversations. At some point, his mind wanders away from Rachel's words and to something as insignificant as the color of his shoelaces or the sharpness of his green pencil.

"It's a question I've asked myself since I could ask questions," replies Mike, a bemused smirk appearing on his face. _Three… Two… One…_

"Michael!" biting back a snicker, he takes in a cough. Classic, predictable Rachel.

"I'm just thinking…"

"Don't strain yourself."

"I never do," Mike rebuts.

"Well?"

"Barbra."

"Barbra?" asks Rachel, the questioning in her voice taking Mike aback. Time and time again, Rachel expresses her bond with the Broadway actress. To have her question her connection towards her in those crossroad moments can only make him scrunch his eyebrows together inquisitively.

"Am I wrong?" he presses, intrigued.

"No, but are you right?"

"If something isn't wrong, it has to be right. There is no in-between, Jewberry."

"So you think Don't Rain on My Parade will make me shine in the eyes of the admission's board?" there's a sweet hopefulness in her voice that does not prevent Mike from finding an endeared smile appearing on his face.

"More than shine; you'll suffocate them."

"Michael, suffocation won't get me in Julliard, unless you're confusing it with Juvie."

"Suffocate them with _talent_," he elaborates.

"And you say you and words aren't two peas in a pod," muses Rachel.

"We aren't,"

"And yet you always know just what to say to make a girl swoon." Mike can hear her breathe hitch against her throat. He wonders just how much Rachel thinks over her words before saying them, and if its general implications applied to two best friends who clung onto each other for the sake of convenience.

"I make you swoon?"

"Among other things," her voice trails off, and the slightly lower note in her voice suggests more than Mike is ready to hear or handle. She's a friend. She's his_ best friend_. She's everything he isn't, and in all romance books and B-rate romantic comedies, those are the perfect couples; the opposites. But despite their vast differences and tight bond, the possibility of her being anything more than a friend sends an uncomfortable shiver down his spine.

"You'll show em, Jewberry!" he expresses passionately, in dire hope of steering away from any potential, heart bearing moments.

"I am made for this, Michael. I am made for Julliard, for stardom… For all of it." Rachel's confidence vibrates through his bedroom, and just his close proximity to her makes it rub off on him.

"Promise not to forget the little people when you're some big Broadway star?" taunts Mike.

"Never!" yelps Rachel.

"Never?"

"You're my support system, Michael,"

"Glad I could be of service."

"Make me a promise?" asks Rachel hopefully.

"Anything."

"When I get into my first show, Broadway or otherwise, promise me you'll find your way in the city? Regardless of how much you'll love Harvard or Yale or whatever Ivy you inevitably end up in. Promise?"

"I guess I'm really destined for an Ivy, right?" the lack of enthusiasm emanating from his voice isn't lost on him personally. He can only hope that with time and cultivation, he'll find enthusiasm in what he believes to be positively lacking in that department. But that doesn't stop him from deepening his voice more than necessary or dragging out the syllables, hoping that perhaps she'll call him out on it. And maybe, for a single evening, he can admit to what he knows in his heart and what he denies in his mind.

"Don't you promise?" Rachel asks jumpily. Sighing, he forces a soft chuckle from himself.

"Promising right now!" he expresses, feigning passion.

"Good."

"So do I have to fake going for a shower or doing my homework or even clipping my toenails so I can hang up?" to end a conversation with Rachel Berry takes about ten to fifteen different excuses until one so conveniently makes her relent. This time, however, it seems to be slightly bit different.

"None of the above, I have to practice anyways."

* * *

_Stupid lack of hand-eye-coordination_, grumbles Quinn thoughtfully to herself, watching as the granite rock misses the window and hits the brick wall instead. Cheer leading may have made Quinn flexible, strong and McKinley's unchallenged head bitch in charge, but it does nothing for her aim.

_I should have just taken up archery for gym class_, she thinks to herself, leaning her body down to reach for another one of the abundant granite rocks circling around the Chang's Chinese influenced garden. Quinn runs her thumb through it, the friction between her finger and the texture of the rock making her more aware of the object she's about to hurl over at Mike Chang's bedroom window.

Slinging her arm back, she forwards it, much like a catapult. Quinn's body stumbles back slightly, losing her balance until she finds her bottom meeting the green grass. An inevitable cringe followed by a yelp of discomfort flows from the blonde.

"Fucking hell," she hisses to herself, turning her body sideways and running her hand down her badly bruised butt.

"Ruining my toned ass for Mike Chang. I really am redefining pathetic," she whispers to herself, the sting of the soreness causing her to flinch in slight discomfort.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, FABRAY?" almost immediately, Quinn's hazel eyes widen in realization. That voice. That fucking familiar, untimely voice.

Quickly, Quinn scrambles for whatever bit of composure she can find in that second. Raising her shaky, unstable legs up from the ground, she meets Mike Chang's bewildered, aggravated expression with a crooked grin.

"Please tell me you're not _actually_ throwing pebbles at my goddamn window." Mike begs, staring at her expectantly. She can only stare, distracted by the curves of his body revealed by his generous white tank top. His muscles flex unconsciously as he sticks his head forward to get a look at the spectacle outdoors. Quinn can't help but salivate ever so slightly at the sight. She has stolen glances at him post-shower at the boys' locker room under the pretense of "borrowing Puck's car keys," but in this angle, she swears she can feel her insides combusting with yearning.

"_Fabray_," he calls for her attention sternly. Well, as stern as Mike can be.

"God, you're hot," Quinn muses thoughtlessly.

"_Fabray_!"

"Yes, honey?" she taunts, her lips closing into a smirk.

"Go. Away."

"Now why would I do that?" asks the cheer leader, crossing her arms defiantly.

"You can't just Taylor Swift me at ten in the evening on a _school night_," despite her better attempts to stop it, she scoffs.

"More like Romeo and Juliet," she corrects him. "Besides, it's called spontaneity. Quit being such a _good boy_,"

"It's called stalking," Mike corrects her.

"You call it stalking, I call it spontaneity," Quinn shrugs it off.

"Go. Away."

"You've said those two words to me for, what, three years? Do you really think I'll start listening now?" she asks him pointedly. Considering the amount of slightly immature tactics she has used to gain his affection, she figures he would have learned that she's unshakable. Much like her love. But that's a different line for a different situation.

"You could."

"Not going to happen,"

"I'll call the police."

"And say what?"

"Blonde psychopathic cheerleader is stalking me," he bites back wittily. She can feel her smirk widen into a grin. She has to applaud him on being one of the very few who can make her stutter for a response. That or fall in love ten times over.

"Are you going to invite me in or what? I brought goodies." Quinn brags, gesturing to the large disposable bag with her church's logo stamped in the front. She then points to the four Starbucks coffee cups resting in a Styrofoam container.

"Did you fail third grade math or something?" he asks her irritably. "There's two of us and-" The sound of the pateo doors screeching open interrupts Mike's tirade. A figure, clad head-to-toe in expensive designer work casual, appears to Quinn. Immediately, Mike stops, leaning his body through the window even more to catch a glimpse of the person approaching Quinn from downstairs.

"What is all this yelling?" the voice of one Julia Lee-Chang breaks the shouting banter between Quinn and Mike. Approaching the two, her high heel Louis Vuittons click-clacking against the pateo before reaching the grass, she takes a good long look at Quinn and back to her son above.

"And here I thought you'd gone soft," Julia Lee-Chang comments, her thick Chinese accent ringing into Quinn's ears. Almost immediately, a large warm grin appears on her typically apathetic face. Much like Quinn herself, Julia is rooting for her and Mike to find their way to each other. Up to this day, she isn't aware of _why_ such a strict, proper woman such as Dr. Chang would be encouraging Mike to be with someone like Quinn, but she doesn't fight it.

Mother knows best, right?

"Never, Mrs. Chang!" exclaims Quinn charmingly, flashing her pearly white teeth. She's played this game for years, and she's long become a master at it. Although she may be destitute to a life of grandeur outside of Lima, she can certainly remain top dog of the social hierarchy by milking her appearance and charm for whatever it's worth. Besides, being a hot seventeen-year-old truly does present her with some advantages in the art of Mike Chang seduction.

"Venti caramel macchiato," Quinn offers, picking up the designated cup and holding it out for the woman of the household. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Mike glaring at both his mother and her angrily.

"Quinn, thank you." Julia says appreciatively, reaching for the cup and placing it against her lips.

"And black coffee for Dr. Chang Senior himself"

"My husband is actually out for a business conference,"

"AND THEREFORE WE SHOULDN'T HAVE STALKERS IN OUR HOUSE!" Mike breaks the silence, his loud aggravated scream causing both women to jump ever so slightly.

"It's romantic, sweetie" Julia coaxes him.

"Mama, can you pretend to be on my side?" he asks desperately. "She's bribing you with _coffee_,"

"It's not just coffee; it's a caramel macchiato!" argues Julia. "Completely different."

"Mama, don't! She'll tie me up and eat me alive!" a crimson blush immediately appears on Quinn's face as she turns to him, winking suggestively.

"Don't do that!"

"Do what?" Quinn asks calmly.

"Flirt with me."

"Michael, Quinn is a _harmless_ girl. Give her a chance," Julia intervenes, grasping the coffee cup against her chest.

"Exactly, honey. Give me a chance," taunts Quinn.

"Mama, please I'm beggi-"

"Come on, Quinn." Julia interrupts him.

* * *

"I think I broke my ass," Quinn Fabray comments pensively, standing before the full-length mirror in Mike Chang's bedroom. Her back is turned to the mirror, her head overlooking her own shoulder as she inspects her ass carefully. From the other end of the room, Mike Chang can only mutter a curt, "mh," in response to her.

Just when Mike has the slightest bit of hope that Quinn's new "strategy" involves acting like a normal human being, she goes off and proves him wrong. It's a given that Quinn has done far worse and crazier things in the past three years; from hiding under his Christmas tree to tricking him into Breadsticks for a date. But despite the undeniable improvement in her shenanigans, she still continues to push him over the edge.

He watches her from his desk out of the corner of his eye. Almost ninety nine percent of the time, Mike only ever sees her clad in her Cheerios uniform. All he sees is the conventional, conservative colors of her cheerleading uniform and her high ponytail swishing with every move she makes.

But this is one of the rare occurrences when he sees her in a completely different attire. Instead of her constricting uniform, she sports a loose, paper thin long-sleeve green top with a black tank top underneath accentuating her curves. Her legs are covered by a pair of dark, ocean blue jeans that highlight the length of her legs and 'swoosh' at the bottom. Alternatively, her hair is damp and flows messily down her back, the roots twisting in different directions.

She's bohemian and loose and wild; the girl behind the Cheerio uniform. It's an unnerving sight.

"Stare much?" comments Quinn cockily, catching him from his reflection in the mirror. Quickly, Mike returns to his computer screen, hiding his burning cheeks before another one of her taunting remarks cause him to throw her out of the window.

"Cocky much?"

"Very much," she says without hesitation. He fixes his gaze on the screen. He runs his thumb down the MacBook pad, highlighting key information when he feels Quinn popping up to his side.

"Personal space," hisses Mike, rolling his desk chair away from Quinn's lingering figure.

"Is that any way to treat a guest?" asks Quinn teasingly, making up for the newly vacated space between them by moving closer.

"You're not a guest, you're the bitch who almost broke my window," grumbles Mike crankily, turning his chair to jam his legs against Quinn's. He's never like this. He's never rude, never loud and certainly never angry. But Quinn just irks him. She just gets under his skin and somehow finds a way to play with his emotions just enough to have him resting over the edge of insanity. She moves back, only for a proud smirk to take over her pale face.

"If you want to play rough…" she trails off thoughtfully, moving forward as she places her hands against the arm rests, linger her body close. He can feel her warm hands against his, and he swears he never imagined the ice queen to be so… So…

_Hot!_

"Is that your goal here? To seduce me?" Mike asks, ignoring her touch and the slight slump of her breasts lingering close to him. He stares up at her, his dark eyes not betraying any form of weakness.

"One of my many goals in life, honey. That merely scratches the surface," Quinn says theatrically before moving away from him, pushing herself against his desk, his books and pencils flowing down to the carpeted floor.

"That's my stuff!" exasperates Mike, already preparing to stand up when Quinn's legs rest on opposite sides of his waist, her eyelashes fluttering down at him.

"So?" Quinn asks pointedly, using her legs to roll his chair towards her. Mike's eyes widen, the biological response his body is producing threatening to break his composure. She's Quinn Fabray. She's deranged and cocky and so fucking unattractive where personality is concerned, but in every other aspect disregarding those qualities, she's a goddess.

She's the beauty of McKinley, of maybe even Lima! And the truly irritating part is that she knows how to utilize her looks. She knows how to cock her head mysteriously to the side or charmingly allow her fingers to graze his. He may not see the appeal of her all-American beauty, but he certainly sees the appeal of a drop dead gorgeous girl straddling him with her legs.

"Unlike you, I care about my schoolwork." Mike gets out, despite the less than holy thoughts running through his unwilling mind. Damn subconscious. Damn teenage hormones. Damn everything.

"Like the good, studious son you're expected to be?" Quinn challenges pointedly.

"You don't know anything, Fabray"

"I know more than you,"

"Do you? About what?" asks Mike sarcastically, forgetting their compromising situation.

"Everything. I'm smarter, prettier, more talented…" Quinn lists boastfully, licking her lips in absolute pride. There goes whatever uncalled for thoughts he was having. Just when she almost has him, she almost always finds a way to reveal her true personality and lose him yet again.

"Then why settle for one of us 'mere mortals?'" Mike mocks.

"I'm not settling… You're different." Mike can hear the sincerity in her voice, however cheesy the line may be, and he immediately pushes her legs away and stands up defiantly.

"Stop."

"What? Scared you'll fall in love with me?" she leans forward while he leans back.

"More like I'm scared I'll end up stabbing you with this pencil," he gestures to the mechanical pencil he is holding in his hands.

"There's a thin line between love and hate, honey"

"Aren't you exhausted yet, Fabray?" Mike inquires, tossing his pencil down to the desk and leaning forward, studying her closely. Wouldn't years of rejection hurt over time? Wouldn't years of longing get frustrating? Wouldn't attempt after attempt get exhausting? He doesn't understand Quinn's loyalty to her cause. He himself is a half-hearted boy, with the exception of dance. With schoolwork and friendships and families and everything in between, he only puts in half of himself. But Quinn, ever fickle and narcissistic Quinn, always seems to put all of who she is into everything she wants. It's quite intriguing.

"Doesn't this all get redundant? You chase and I run. It's a game of cat and mouse. A never ending game."

"Do you want me to leave?" she asks simply.

"Yes!"

"You do?" Quinn presses on.

"That's what I just said!" he says dubiously.

"Then ask me."

"Ask you what?"

"Ask me to _leave_. Go on, ask me. Seriously. No begging, no whining; just ask like a gentleman and I'll go,"

She reveals the perfect opportunity for freedom from her irritating presence. She gives him a choice, for the first time since he's known her. He should take it. He wants to take it. His mouth is already open, his hands already close to gesturing towards the door.

But he doesn't speak. He doesn't say the few, simple words it will take to free himself of her for the night.

_Don't be an idiot, Mike. Just make her leave!_ Mike reprimands himself internally.

"It isn't redundant," says Quinn with a pointed nod. She raises herself from her desk, arms resting against her waist, as she looks up into his eyes meaningfully.

"You've thrown me out time and time again in the past. You've flat out _ignored_ me whenever I do things like this. But now, for some reason beyond ourselves, you can't ask me to leave. I call that progress," she continues defiantly, eyes full of passion and belief. It makes his heart sink how someone like Quinn, the most shallow, self-absorbed bitch to ever grace all fifty states of the United States of America, can contain more passion in something so idiotic compared to him with dance.

A silence overcomes them, and surprisingly enough, he doesn't feel his chest constricting with Quinn's typical intolerable effect. Sure, she's still intolerable with every breath she takes and every flicker of her hazel eyes, but it isn't all that painful as it has been for the past three years.

Quinn begins wandering aimlessly around his bedroom. Self-consciously, Mike catches a glimpse of the stuffed panda bear tucked safely underneath his dark blue quilt sheets. He isn't scared of her mockery, but of the amount of gushing and swooning Quinn will be doing if and when she spots it. Just as he's about to make his way over to the bed to subtly toss his beloved, ratty panda bear away, she speaks up.

"You are _such_ a nerd," Quinn muses conversationally. She runs her dainty fingers over the number of academic plaques, medals and trophies proudly lined up in his mahogany book case. Each one represented not only an academic victory, but the amount of times Mike merely smiled when awarded them. There was no sparkle in his eye or pride swelling in his chest. He's merely a whole slump of nothing.

"Ohio Mathematics Award of 2010, Salutatorian from 2008 to 2012, AP Biology award…" she reads them out loud. They feel more like notches on Mike's academic belt than true accomplishments.

"Yeah, my dad would put his favorite ones at front and the less extravagant ones in the back," he answers quietly, tucking the panda bear behind his large pillows. He hears her shuffle through the trophies to the back, eyeing them all carefully.

"What are you looking for?" Mike inquires.

"Your dance awards." Quinn answers matter-of-factly. "Like your dance revolution first place trophy of 2009 or the Ohio dance competition you won last year," he's taken aback. Quinn has always been skilled at the art of retrieving information that could help in her quest for getting _his_ attention. But to know that his accomplishments, however much his parents disregard them, are being acknowledged and are known by someone, unconsciously makes him feel relevant.

"How do you…?"

"I was there." Quinn responds nonchalantly. "For all of them," she elaborates, rummaging through the other levels of his bookcase.

"I never saw you there…"

"I sat in the back. Come on, honey" she turns her head to him briefly. "I'm blonde but I ain't dumb. Chances are, you would have beaten me up and gotten yourself disqualified from competition. Think I'd let you do that? I mean, I love you, babe. I love you like a freaking love song!" if he isn't so deeply engrossed in the details, he would have already interrupted her overload of romantic expressions.

"But I'm a performer in some sense, too" Quinn continues. "It's a distraction; having someone you love watching you. You drown in that love and choke on your own, and before you know it you've deviated from what you're meant to be and do for the sake of it,"

"That's…" it's what? It was far from romantic, however much she intends it to be. And yet somehow, it strikes his heart just a little bit to have someone so devoted to him. She may be unshakable, but she is almost always terrific at making him feel relevant and wanted.

"Romantic? Sweet?" Quinn supplies, finding his trophies thrown carelessly into a knit basket and replacing a number of his academic trophies with his dance trophies.

"That's just... Something," he reaches for his coffee cup, allowing it to rest along his lips. Taking a long sip, he's startled by the incredibly familiar taste. "Soy café mocha with a bit of whip cream," he recites his coffee order, just as he does for the gothic Starbucks cashier he almost always comes across during his afternoon coffee runs. "Fabray, you really should think about a future in sleuthing. Work for the CIA or something," he can't help but comment good naturedly.

"That's a future I never considered. Not everyone is geared towards Julliard like you are," at the mention of Julliard, Mike's ears pique up.

"I'm not-"

"Why is the Julliard website open on your desktop then?" retorts Quinn, reaching for one of his shirts from inside his closet and dusting down his trophies.

"Rachel. She wanted advice for her Julliard audition." He lies through gritted teeth, not at all surprised when an unconvinced sneer appears on Quinn's face.

"You don't have to lie to me, you know. Despite whatever it is you hear around school, I'm actually rather understanding and compassionate and an _amazing_ kisser," she rants on, her off-topic addition inevitably irking an eyeroll from Mike.

"And I have to take you seriously when you say shit like that?"

"You're changing the subject."

"Julliard is Rachel's dream." Mike tells her simply.

"And it isn't yours?"

"No. I already know my future." She turns to him, whipping his crumpled shirt in the air pensively. Convincingly, she cocks a freshly plucked eyebrow at him, striding towards him slowly.

"Let me guess. You'll go to some big school. Harvard, probably. Yale, if you choke on your admission interview. You'll study something fancy, like biochemistry or political science or pre-law. Perhaps you'll even have a double-major. Every now and then, you'll sneak in a dance or two but between class schedules and the workload, it'll be something sporadic.

Then what? You graduate? Perhaps an honor roll student, perhaps not. By then, I'm sure Dr. Chang has already sent your applications to Harvard Law and paid for an in-city apartment for you to live in. Maybe he even buys you a car to show you how proud he is you're the perfect cookie cutter son. You'll go to law school, dragging your feet and getting by, and then you'll graduate.

You'll enter some law firm, make six figures by the time you're thirty, marry some equally intellectual, snoozefest and pop out perfect children. And then what? You'll teach your daughter how to tango for prom, maybe. Every now and then, you'll join a dance class to make yourself feel better on giving up on it so long ago. Every night, you'll go to bed and hold your wife close because it's the only way you can convince yourself you actually love her or yourself or your life and you pray that the following day, you don't remember the heart clenching doubt you feel in you chest.

That's your future?"

She stops before him, eyes shining with a clear 'I'm-right-you're-wrong' sign within them. Her face is a blank slate. No cocky grin or flirtatious flicker in her hazel eyes. There's nothing to see but complete and utter seriousness and concern. Before he can react, before he can even _think_ of how to react, she takes hold of the Sharpie pen resting on his desk.

"Apply to Julliard, honey. I dare you." she holds the pen out to him, daring him to take it from her. Daring him to take a damn chance for once in his sheltered life. "It's late, San is waiting; I'll go," she says quietly, but not before stepping forward and staring into his eyes with a deeper understanding than Mike will never truly grasp.

"Good night, honey" and stepping the last step possible, her lips graze along his cheek. And to both their surprises, he does not push nor does he lean towards it. He allows her to rest her lips against his cheek. He allows her this moment where her dreams can come true, even for just one evening. He allows her to come close enough to feel the Quinn Fabray effect making his heart thump in realization.

"Good night, Fabray" With those choice words, she vanishes from his bedroom and leaves him alone to his thoughts and her words linger in the air. He tightens his grip against the pen, letting out a low breathe. Finally, he sits himself down on his seat, pulling out the audition form and printing it out.

Maybe his future isn't set in stone just yet.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This update took a _lot_ of work but there's so many things I wanted to put in; the Quinntana friendship, the Cherry friendship hinting at slight romantic feelings (foreshadowing, my fellas!) and of course, a LOT of Fabang interaction. I loved writing them together, and having some light hearted fun before I throw in the angst. It's a bit of a slow build up, but trust me, the details in each one will help for when we reach the climax.

**Review, please!**


	5. The Betrayal

The Betrayal

* * *

In almost every one of Nicholas Sparks' work, one thing remains constant; the small town. He would romanticize the idea of a city girl falling for a lumberjack or perhaps some tragic yet faithful heroine turning the bad boy into the perfect man. He would decipher small towns as a beautiful threshold for all that _isn't_ present in New York or San Francisco; purity, decadence and simplicity. According to him, it is the breathing ground for the truest of loves and lives.

According to Rachel Berry, on the other hand, it is where the mediocre conglomerate. It's home to cruelty brought on by years of prejudice, which in turn was brought on by isolation. Dreams don't prosper in small towns, they burn under the scrutiny and narrow-minded opinions of all others. There is no love or life in Lima, just grass and silence and the measly population of approximately 40,000 people.

Her fathers, the dynamic Hiram Berry and the love of his life, the charismatic Leroy Berry, chide her of her criticisms. Lima, for all that it lacks in grandeur, holds something special that cities like New York or San Francisco lack; a home. Their home. With its California shutters and classic, unmistakable lime green door. It holds memories of growth and memories of hardship and the echo of Rachel's one-of-a-kind voice.

But how can Lima be home? How can she call a place, which refuses to acknowledge her talent, home? How can she feel comfortable knowing that whichever way she turns, verbal abuse uttered by Quinn Fabray and Santana Lopez are ready to knock her down to the ground? How can she fathom the idea of forever being tethered to a city so small, filled with memories of taunting, without wanting to revisit her lunch?

To be blunt, there is no way.

And it is for this reason that, despite whatever words of wisdom Nicholas Sparks or her fathers would share with her, she will never be at home in Lima. She will never see anything but pain and suffering in the small town.

She strides with perfect precision down the freshly waxed walls of William McKinley High School. Her penny loafers collide with the ground harshly. It's almost surprising that she hasn't caught on fire as of yet.

In her hands, neatly packaged in a large white envelope, is what eighteen years of waiting and dreaming have culminated to: her Julliard application. Everything necessary, from her resume to her transcript to things in between, have been carefully placed and laminated within the envelope. It feels like cloud nine and rainbows and butterflies rolled into one. The envelope oozes of joy and prosperity.

And its beholder?

Well, she feels her breakfast, lunch and daily green tea rolling into one within her stomach, ready to exit from her mouth at any moment.

No. There would be time for an anxiety attack later. Right now, the goal is simple; sign, seal and deliver. It would be simple enough. All it would take is ten strides down the east hallway, a turn to the hallway intersecting it and a quick walk down the stairs would land her in the auditorium, where arts administrator and Spanish teacher, Mr. Schuester, would undoubtedly be.

Quite frankly, she doesn't necessarily know _why_ she delayed such a simple transaction. It isn't like her to leave things to the last minute. But somehow, between her AP classes and auditions for other Arts schools, the thought almost escaped her mind. Almost.

But in a matter of seconds, her strongly worded recommendation letter not exceeding two pages would be in signed and sealed and delivered to Julliard.

And then there will be nothing left to do but count down the days until that diploma is firmly clutched in her hand and her acceptance letter in the other. There's nothing else to do but just anticipate the spectacular moment when she leaves on a one-way ticket to New York City and never looks back.

There is nothing else.

Is there?

Huffing, Rachel continues her long strides, taking the designated turn and approaching the staircase. She's eighteen-years-old. Her voice is at its prime. There would be plenty of boys in New York. Boys of all shapes and sizes. Boys who shared her love for being extraordinary and detested the very _idea_ of simplicity. Boys who are of her caliber and who could sway her into a passion filled existence.

Boys who wouldn't be Michael Chang.

Rachel and the notorious Quinn Fabray have next to nothing in common.

Quinn is a beauty queen, Rachel has won every talent show out there.

Quinn reads novels of love, Rachel sings lyrics on sheet paper.

Quinn hums to today's mind numbing pop music, Rachel is biased to "show tunes."

Quinn is inconsistent, Rachel is predictable.

Quinn is made to find true love. Rachel is made to find her dreams.

They are different in every which way one can imagine. But they do share one single thing: love for the one and only Mike Chang.

She quickens her page, mind drifting away from thoughts of her recommendation letter and onto thoughts of her best friend.

Michael "Mike" Anthony Chang

What is it that made him, with his simple albeit endearing looks and simple personality, make two girls of opposing beliefs and ideals fall hard?

What _is_ it?

For as long as she has known Mike, never once has he exhibited anything quite extraordinary in her mind. He floats through life without much passion or yearning. He is made of obligation and logic and consistency. He is everything Rachel, in a sense, loathed about Lima. Save for the bullying, of course. He is mediocrity. He is passionless existence. He is simplicity. He doesn't see anything beyond himself and his parents.

Perhaps, in the most sick and twisted sense, that is _exactly_ why Rachel finds herself attached to him.

Stars need the rest of the dark, night sky to clap for them.

And just as Rachel is that star, illuminating the dark galaxy with her talent, Mike is the night sky providing the audience. He provides her with validation and adulation. This boy, with the perfect dark eyes and the kind-hearted demeanor, is everything she needs. Everything she'll spend the rest of her life looking for, striving for. He is her audience, and she is his star.

And then there is the Quinn Fabray factor.

Just thinking about that tassel of irritatingly blonde hair makes Rachel's blood boil with distaste.

Since that all too traumatic first day of high school, two things have become definite in Rachel's life: Mike Chang is her best friend and Quinn Fabray will be the death of her.

Everywhere she turns, there the blonde is in some shape or form. Sometimes, she's there in actuality, meeting Rachel's timid but sure gaze with a condescending smirk and a hurtful comment. Other times, it's one of her lackies, compensating for Quinn's terror with their own. It's unnerving, feeling unsafe and in constant attack everywhere you turn.

But there is some justice in being the underdog; she gets what Quinn never will; Mike.

He may not see her as anything more than the overly ambitious best friend. He may never see her as the perfect girl to his perfect boy. He may never speak to her again come graduation, even. But he will never be Quinn's. Despite her drastic attempts to lure him in, he'll always be Rachel's Mike. He'll always be her number one fan. He'll always be her support system. He'll always be her only true companion, and she his.

And that knowledge? It's absolutely exhilarating! Nothing feels better than robbing miss Queen Bitch herself of the happiness and love she so desires.

_Damn it, I'm already ten minutes late_, Rachel quickly acknowledges, eyes casting up to the digital clock so conveniently placed against the wall. She strides through the hallways, almost slipping and finding refuge in a corner. Arriving at the large doors of the auditorium, she takes in a low breathe, tightening her grip on the envelope and allowing the theatre doors to swing open.

_Just like they will for the rest of my life_, Rachel thinks gleefully.

"Don't you believe in falling in love at any age?" Rachel, being the prime vocalist that she is, has extensive hearing. She could scribble down notes as they flow from a singer's ear. In the same way, she can easily recognize any voice with just a few choice words. She immediately recognizes that voice. How could she not? It's the unmistakable voice of one Quinn Fabray.

Soon after comes a derisive snort.

"Aren't we cynical?" Quinn pushes further, the seductive purr not escaping Rachel's ears. Rolling her eyes, she can only imagine either Noah "Puck" Puckerman or Sam Evans, her two hopelessly devoted lackies, already falling at their feet. Didn't those boys realize that miss Queen Bee herself is all style, no substance?

"Try frustrated." Instinctively, Rachel's enthralling dark brown orbs widen in realization. She knows that voice like the palm of her hand. It's the voice that soothes her down as she crawls into a ball whenever Quinn's insults hit too close to him. It's the voice that send a rosy blush to her cheeks. It's the voice that, in its own right, is beautiful and positively perfect. It's Mike Chang. It's _her_ Mike Chang.

"And why's that?" decisively, Rachel piques her head from the doors ever so silently. She ducks her head and scrunches her body down, finding the farthest seat from center stage. Making herself comfortable, she adjusts her wool sweater and rests her envelope firmly on her lap.

On stage is Mike and Quinn, with Quinn lazily sprawled across the pianist, Brad's, classical piano. Rachel can already spot her scandalously short Cheerio skirt flipping ungracefully in all directions, not at all hiding tightly covered ass. Before her is a tray of lunch, which surprisingly enough, is Mike's favorite cafeteria lunch; Mac and Cheese with potato wedges and a diet Coke on the side. She swirls her fork around the pasta, keeping herself up using her free arm. It rests against the presumably cold top of the piano at a ninety degree angle, the palm of her hand resting against her cheek.

Mike, in turn, has his back against the hollow floors of McKinley's cheap stage. He runs his fingers through his mop of jet black hair. Even from afar, Rachel can spot his muscular arms clenching along the movement, despite being concealed in a comfortable looking baby blue hoodie. He looks like a cloud, Rachel realizes. A cloud just about to collide with the electrifying lightning that is the blonde watching him carefully. He stares up at the ceiling, as if he is purposely avoiding the sight of Quinn. Finally, he speaks up again.

"You're eating my lunch."

"Sharing is caring." Quinn retorts, raising her fork and pointing towards him directly.

"I'm sorry if sharing isn't exactly what came to mind when you stormed into the auditorium and slobbered all over me."

"I did _not_ slobber all over you,"

"I have your lip gloss all over my shirt." Mike lifts his baby blue sweater, revealing prints of Quinn's signature lip gloss-Light pink, raspberry scented high volume gloss from Mac to be exact, sprawled across his shirt. Shifting against her seat, Rachel can only grumble. Typical. Although granted, it isn't the _most_ insane thing Quinn has done through her three years of hopeless pursuit for Mike.

"I-"

"I feel like the Hulk just threw me around," Mike announces, rubbing his shoulder ever so slightly. A peach blush takes over Quinn's pale cheeks, her taunting smirk following in suit.

"Think of me as the big green monster with a heart then," Mike only grumbles, shrugging his shoulder nonchalantly.

"I don't think of you at all, to be honest" he says apathetically, eyes still resting up at the ceiling. Rachel moves her attention towards Quinn, who begins to speedily munch on her food as if it is the single thing in existence.

"You and I both know that isn't true." She says, mouth overflowing with Mac and Cheese.

Rachel's anticipating Mike's blunt, crude response. It's almost as entertaining as watching the, albeit mediocre, Les Miserables DVD concert during a Friday evening. Although watching her arch enemy use her physical attributes and witty personality to her advantage makes her reel with disgust, there's something else to be said for Mike's colorful words of rejection. She leans forward, ever so slightly, just to see for herself.

"Maybe it isn't."

Rachel and Quinn's expressions mirror one another; both have their jaws slacking down in positive shock. The difference, however, is the twinkle of hope and unmistakable happiness sparkling from Quinn's hazel eyes, which contrast the darkness that overcomes Rachel's. A silence overtakes the auditorium, and from afar, Rachel can spot Mike biting down on his lip, regret filling his face completely.

_When did this happen?_ Rachel asks herself in absolute confusion. It stung her heart, hearing those three words slip from Mike's mouth. When did they stop being the dynamic duo? When did Mike suddenly find himself enthralled in the allure of Quinn Fabray?

She clenches her fist, first in indignant rage and then… Hurt.

Would it have killed Mike to be the only guy in this damn school, in this damn _town_, that didn't fall for her?

Will she never be _that_ girl? The leading lady of her _own_ romantic comedy? Or will she forever be destitute to be the girl who dies in her pajamas during a horror movie? And will her horror forever be the very girl who looks like she has just discovered the solution to chipped nails?

Rachel's cloudy gaze watches the two. She always did have a thing for masochism. The blonde jumps off the classic piano, her Puma sneakers squeaking against the ground. Flattening her skirt, she lays down beside the raven-haired boy. She can see him, avoiding her prying gaze by casting his own to the ceiling.

"What do you think about? You know, when you're thinking about me?" she asks him, barely concealing the interest sparkling from her eyes.

"It isn't something you'd want to know." Mike responds simply.

"I'm dying to know." Quinn presses on.

"I think of you… Getting slushies hurled at your face. Being called, what, a bitch? A whore? Hideous? I think about how little remorse you exhibit for the shit you do to people. I think about how you squash them like bugs-" Rachel could hear the hostility emanating from his voice. She could feel the mood change in the empty auditorium, save for the bully, her best friend and herself occupying it with words of pain and irritation.

It surprises her, the amount of passion and annoyance Mike's voice exudes. It's nothing like his calm and collected tone towards even the bleakest of situations.

"You mean Rachel?" Quinn interrupts him, the mention of Rachel's name causing her to step forward even further.

"Yes, Rachel."

"What, like she's any better?" She could hear the panic in Quinn's voice. The desperation is evident from the horror flashing from her face. It's unnerving, seeing a girl so detached and cold unveiling such human emotion.

"You drew pornographic images of her on bathroom stalls!"

"I-"

"You stole her gym clothes and made her run around school butt-naked."

"I-"

"You wash her face with a slushie on a daily basis."

"Mike-"

"You're _not_ a good person, Fabray!" Mike finally snaps, forcing his back up from the ground in frustration. But she doesn't merely see his anger. She doesn't just see Mike being kind-hearted, genuinely good Mike. She sees something else. Something neither Quinn nor himself are aware of in this very moment. She sees the denial. She sees his pathetic excuses laced with venom. She sees… Oh God, she sees it.

He's seeing _her_.

He's seeing something in Quinn Fabray, something he can't fathom or control or understand.

She could see it in the way his face scrunches together. She could hear it from the way his voice cracks. She could feel it from where she sits. She may, from time to time, drown out Mike's own struggles with her narcissism. She may treat him as a fan more than a friend. She may be a terrible friend. But every now and again, she catches him and sees what she sometimes neglects. There is no denying what he seems to be so hell bent on denyin.

"I'm not." Quinn responds, voice thin and raspy. She sits herself up, fingers nervously finding Mike's back and running down it gently. "I'm terrible. I'm no good. I'm, fuck, I'm a _bad_ person," her free hand finds his chin, tilting it in her direction.

"But take me anyway," Rachel can see Quinn's lips parting ever so slightly, her head leaning towards his. Rachel clenches the chair before her, eyes filling with a pool of saltwater tears. Right before her, she sees the single thing she has _never_ feared; Mike and Quinn coming together.

"You're not good enough for me," Mike's words slide from his mouth, not at all lacking in conviction. He unlaces her fingers from his chin, firmly pulling away from her grasp and pulling himself up to his two feet. Breathlessly, Quinn's mouth opens, reeling from the rejection.

"Yes I am!" she scrambles to her feet, chicken legs shaking as she finds her way in front of him.

"I'm a catch; I'm pretty and popular…" Rachel can see Quinn's own ego betraying her, and from the look of annoyance lingering on Mike's face, he can as well.

"That doesn't mean _anything_!" he argues.

"That means _everything_!"

"So is that how you decide how important someone is, Fabray? Based on how good they look on the outside and how many Facebook friends they have?" Mike challenges her boldly. It's a side of him she's never known; a domineering, angry and challenging side. A side, she begrudgingly hates to admit, that can only be lured out by _her_.

"Because if that's the case, you don't know Rachel, and you sure as hell don't know yourself." Rachel can't help but find relief in his words. T

"What, you like her now?" asks Quinn with a scoff.

"All I know is that I don't like you." Mike's diffusion makes her heart clench even more.

"Bullshit, I'm calling bullshit. You may not like me, but you can't deny that there's not a tiny part of you that can't shake me!" snaps Quinn, her silky smooth alto infused with aggravation and passion. She stares at him, hazel eyes staring into his own, searching for any semblance of denial.

"God, what a stupid ego you have sometimes!"

"Don't change the subject, Mike. You can't shake me. You can't stop thinking about me. Be it good or bad, you can never get me out of your head. I surprise you, I confuse you, I challenge you. And that scares you, doesn't it? Because then you'll have to face up to the fact that maybe I'm not as bad as you think I am. Actually, moreover… Maybe you're not as _good_ as you like to think you are." Quinn lingers close to him, only for him to hover away from her.

"I'm a good person, Fabray."

"I don't mean that kind of good! You're not this cookie cutter robot, despite how much you want to be. You're not the golden son. You're not Rachel's fan boy. You're not pure white and I'm not pure black; we're both just shades of grey."

"Stop." He's begging now.

"Admit it. I've gotten under your skin and you can't shake me off."

"And that's an accomplishment?" Rachel can hear the desperate attempt to escape her words. For the first time since Rachel has known Quinn, she's right. Whether he despises her or he actually becomes fond of her, there's no denying that three years of pestering and challenging has gotten under his skin.

"It's a step forward." Quinn reasons bluntly

"Don't give yourself credit when it's undue." Mike shuffles around her, finding his Jansport backpack and throwing it over his shoulders in a blink of an eye.

"I was made for you, do you know that?" she asks him. Her last dire attempt.

"Excuse you?" he grumbles irritably.

"I was made to love you." Quinn argues passionately. Rachel wonders just how much this girl can take before her will is broken and she picks the easy route.

"You have no clue what love is."

"And you do?"

"It isn't this. It isn't a selfish bitch annoying the hell out of me because she can't get everything she wants." Mike hisses.

"This, right now, isn't love," Quinn answers him plainly. "It's the chase."

"That's all you're in it for." Mike retorts

"It isn't."

"Well, let me make it clear; all you and I will ever have is this chase. I don't want you, _Quinn_," it's the first time he calls her Quinn. It's the first time he calls her anything beyond 'Fabray' or a 'bitch.'

"Except that isn't true." Quinn insists.

"If I wanted to date a cruel, self-centered bully, I'll let you know in advance," he says spitefully, avoiding her as he begins to cast his way down the auditorium.

"You can't run from it forever. I told you, by the end of this year, you're mine," Rachel can see Quinn concealing the hurt that betrays her eyes ever so slightly, a proud smirk and an air of confidence taking over her completely.

She's a terrible actress.

"That won't happen."

"And why not?"

"Because this is who you are. You've got an inflated ego and a vicious need to stomp on all things that shine. That's why you terrorize Rachel or mock Kurt or even treat Santana like shit on occasion; because when they shine, you don't. That will never change. _You_ will never change," He says it with such uncharacteristic coldness that Rachel almost believes it. She almost believes his words of harshness.

But she hears the pauses in between his words, so insignificant neither Quinn nor himself hear it, something so insignificant even _she_ had to think back to hear it. He may be a better actress that Quinn, but he'll never be as good as Rachel. He will never detect what she finally has. That these two persons are so engrossed in the roles they play in this game of cat and mouse, they almost forget who they truly are.

And they almost forget that, behind Quinn's romanticized beliefs of love and Mike's imaginary hatred towards her, there's a magnetic pull.

And to know that she isn't the magnet to Mike's metal? To know that Mike has allowed himself to fall for the only girl Rachel could never fathom allowing him to fall for? To know that her love will always fight that of Quinn's, something so unshakable and so undeniable even to him at this point? To know all of this and to have had to sit by and watch is all occur?

To be blunt; it's a bitch.

* * *

"Rachel, are you alright?" William Schuester, Glee Club director and Spanish teacher, asks her warily. He sits behind his office desk, legs parted underneath and tie loose against his collar. In his hands are a number of freshman Spanish papers, each one market with subtle green pen to overthrow the psychological damage red pen typically ensues with students.

Rachel stands before his doorway, envelope clutched against her chest. It is her only friend now.

"You came late so I let Mike have the stage for a bit of dance practice for his audition," he elaborates, only for Rachel's already dark and blotchy eyes to wide in absolute bewilderment.

"W-What?"

"Did you want the stage?" He trails off questioningly, only for Rachel to theatrically raise her hand to put an end to his words. She couldn't handle listening to anymore words. The last few that entered her ear were traumatic enough already.

"No… You said something about an audition? Like, for the musical?" Yes. Of course! The musical! Surely that's _only_ reasonable explanation behind…

"Uh, no… Julliard, I think." He raises a recommendation form, typed in Times New Roman pt.12 with Mike's name highlighted in bright yellow highlighter. Underneath the pile of papers is an envelope, similar to Rachel's save for the slightly less quality paper-Manila paper to be exact.

The brunette starlet doesn't hear Mr. Schuester further elaborate on the audition form. He doesn't hear him hold his hand out for her own letter. Hell, she doesn't even hear him politely scurry out of the office, Mr. Figgins pulling him away for a conversation on the Spanish curriculum he is currently teaching. For the first time in her eighteen years of existence, she's deaf.

The letter piques from underneath Mr. Schuester's test papers, glaring at her, taunting her to saunter over and take a look.

She doesn't stop herself.

Rachel takes hold of the envelope, placing her own on the desk. Opening it up hastily, she finds his superior transcript; A pluses across the board. However much Rachel will put into her school work for the sake of perfectionism, hers could never challenge those of Mike's. Next is his own dance credentials, outlined perfectly. They're sub par. She calculates the likelihood of him getting in Julliard for a good minute and a half before a different issue makes itself known:

_One acceptance_.

Only one single acceptance per graduating class. Add to that Rachel going against New York City bred talents and those privileged few who have parents in high places, and she feels her chances depleting before her very eyes.

He took her heart and now he takes her dreams.

_He didn't even say anything…_ Rachel thinks sadly, fingering the texture of his envelope in her hands. _He just robbed me of my dreams_, she thinks, a fresh pool of tears slipping down her cheeks.

She slides down Mr. Schuester's leather chair, his envelope symbolizing Rachel's dreams disappearing before her. They'd only accept one. Only one.

_Only one, Rachel. Only one acceptance. Shouldn't it be you?_ A voice in her mind suggests.

_He's your friend and he betrayed you. Even the score_. Another voice pipes in.

_You were made for Julliard. Look at the dates on these forms; this is a last-ditch attempt._ Another voice follows, and they just keep on coming.

_The ends justify the means._

_He already has Quinn, he doesn't need Julliard._

_He doesn't deserve it._

_The shredder is right there. Come on, Rachel. Do it. Just put the papers in. Mister Schuester won't notice. Just say you decided to mail it for him. He'll never think twice._

_This is the difficult path you've chosen; you'll never be popular but you'll be a star._

Later that evening, a bewildered Mr. Schuester hands his shredder scrap to the janitor, wondering just how many reprints of tomorrow's handouts did he shred on account of the over abundance. And why, just why, was there a hint of Manila paper in the mix?

* * *

**Author's Note:** Tsk, tsk. Bad Rachel. Despite what it may seem, I actually sympathized with her while writing this. Because when you think about it, it must hurt having the one person you rely on for support finding their way to the girl who has ruined your life. Of course, that doesn't really justify what she did. And although it may seem a tad bit out-of-character, remember that this is AU. New Directions never happened. Which means Rachel never learned to be a team player and she's still tone deaf as to how wrong her actions can be. It's the same thing with Quinn, really. Right now is _not_ the time for her and Mike. She has a lot of growth to do, and so does Mike. Keep it in mind!

Next update will include a smackdown ;)

**Review!**


	6. The Unjustifiable Means

_The Unjustifiable Means_

* * *

"Whenever something's bothering you, I can always find you here," her voice is like a chirping bird to the ears of one Noah "Puck" Puckerman. Puck's dark brown eyes do not betray a flicker of acknowledgement, just contempt and morbidity. They remain fixated on the fog overtaking the school perimeters and the damp grass swooshing ever so slightly as strong gusts of wind come across the field. He shuffles on the ground, rough hands tucked into his pockets and his right leg resting over his left leg.

The day is a constant back-and-forth; the rain would come and go almost as quickly as his attention in every single one of his classes. It's bothersome, and although Puck opts to spend his time sprawled across the field, he settles for the filthy bleachers. Or rather, beneath them.

He can't recall when the Football field became a place of solace for him, but then again, he can't even recall when was the last time he brushed his teeth.

_Stupid stud problems_, Puck thinks sarcastically to himself.

From the corner of his eye, he spots an unmistakable shade of sunflower hair. Maybe it's the twinge of gold or the abundant curls that separate it from the locks of his other blonde-haired best friend, Sam Evans. Or maybe it's based on the pure fact that her presence is so distinct, he could never mistake her for anyone else.

"Her" being Quinn Fabray.

Three-fourths of the quayhem may be wild in their own rite, but sufficient to say they can be thoroughly predictable. In any situation regarding him and whatever brooding mood he falls under, they come in phases. The first is Sam, who approaches him with comforting silence and an invitation to hurl a Football around from dawn until dusk until the sorrow fades. The next is Santana, who would catch him by surprise and rant in Spanish. She would say things of vibrant language until eventually he yells in response. She knows his triggers almost as well as he knows hers.

But when push comes to shove, when neither Sam's wordless comfort or Santana's wordy triggers get under his skin, they pull in the big guns: Quinn.

He has known her for three years, and within those three years, she never seizes to amaze him with her capability to outwit those who cross her path. Her words are so precise and on the ball that he's shaken by them.

Puck could hear the signature squeak of the regulation, Cheerio pumas against the ground, signaling her approach. He shuffles slightly to his right, giving her room to sit down beside him. From the corner of his eye, he can spot her tight, red shorts underneath her Cheerio skirt, sending his dark eyes ablaze with undeniable interest.

"That's tight." Puck comments roughly, resting his large hands against the back of her knee and allowing it to slide up her skirt. He pinches the curve of her ass. Puck's eyes mischievously glance up at Quinn's face, anticipating some sort of reaction. Some look of anger or pleasure or anything in between.

It doesn't come.

Throughout Puck's eighteen years of existence, only five people have ever come to truly matter. Of those five, two were members of his own, broken family. The remaining three consists of the three other members of their infamous group. And out of those three, none have ever come closer to his own heart than Quinn herself.

He has a battered heart, of that he is confident. It is neither functional nor competent. It beats blood and takes it in and does nothing for him emotionally. But his heart, in all of is uselessness, has been in the palm of the blonde's hands since the moment they found each other.

It's a common occurrence in the damned walls of McKinley. He wants Quinn, Quinn wants Mike and from what Puck knows of the Asian boy, he wants Rachel. Just as every guy in McKinley wants Santana, who wants Brittany who in turn, wants to be free from hiding her affection for, well, Santana. It makes the mind reel, really.

"Mhm." Quinn agrees thoughtlessly, finding her way down on the ground with him. He hates her apathy more than he hates this day, and that's truly saying something. She's always been like this, as if she has long cast him off as a brother or a friend and no longer finds malice in his touches. Puck could easily sprawl her down against the grass and fuck her senseless until she loses her voice. Puck could drown her with whatever half-assed words of love and affection he can think of. Puck could do it all and more, a far cry from the apple of her eye who does nothing but shove her away, and still she would think of him as a friend.

"Whenever it rains, I always like to think the clouds are crying." Quinn admits without a hint of hesitation. This is the basis of their fourway friendship; comfort. There's no hesitation or fear of judgment, just plain honesty.

"Why would clouds be crying, B?" asks Puck dubiously. "They get to be up there and we have to be down here,"

"Exactly," she muses. "They're up there, away from where everything truly happens! They have to watch as people go on crazy adventures or learn new things or fall in love," she continues, a look of pure bliss sparkling from her expressive hazel eyes.

"Or maybe it's because they watch people get mugged or fucked over." Puck replies harshly.

"I like to think they believe it's worth it," Quinn answers.

"It's worth it? Getting screwed over by bullshit and for what? To 'fall in love?'" he challenges her angrily.

"Exactly."

"It's unhealthy."

"What is?" she asks, eyebrows fussed together in mild bewilderment.

"Thinking the way you think. You'll get heartbroken." Puck reasons. She's too fragile. She's a little girl with dreams of grandeur, that may be, but she is nowhere near equipped enough to have her heart broken. Imagining her vulnerable heart in pieces makes his blood boil. It's a cross of protectiveness and love that he feels for her, and he is never too use if it's truly he feels, which has been confused for love. He's never been too good at figuring out his own heart's desires.

"I highly doubt that. You never really get your heartbroken, you just misplace it, that's all." Quinn says quietly.

"That's a shitty way to look at things." He points out.

"Says the guy who thinks life is nothing but sadness." Quinn quips, staring at him pointedly.

"It's realistic." Puck grumbles.

"It's just you being pessimistic," she reasons bluntly.

"Isn't that what bright and shiny people say so they don't think they're idiots?"

"Well, isn't believing you're realistic all a ruse to make yourself think you aren't a pessimist?" her words are curt and nonchalant, but her eyes betray her and she can see the worry behind them.

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't; at least I'm closer to reality than you are." Puck isn't typically this cruel towards Quinn. He doesn't lash out or express his anger towards her, or even towards Sam or Santana really. There's no room for anger in such a tight knit group as theirs. But for some reason, he finds his temper betraying his reason and his words of realism crushing those of Quinn's idealism.

She remains silent, undoubtedly replaying his words in her mind and trying to make sense of what is truly reality and when one crosses the lines to either pessimism or optimism.

"I mean, you can't even accept that you're too good for Chang…" he adds softly, his consciousness sneaking up on him. He can only handle mistreating the Barbie doll of his mind and heart for so long before he caves. He touches her back with his hand comfortingly, running it up and down slowly but surely.

"And you can't accept the fact that all hope _isn't_ lost," she retorts, eyes boring into his meaningfully. "You can graduate."

"Balls told you, didn't he?" Puck grumbles irritably. The image of Sam yanking Quinn and Santana away from their Mike Chang hunt and spreading the news of his inevitable fifth yer of high school comes into his mind. Just thinking about it sends a humiliated shiver down his spine.

"He may have mentioned it," she replies warily, not glancing away.

"And?" he pushes on.

"And I think you're an idiot." Quinn states flatly.

"Wouldn't be the first time," Puck reasons. Quinn may see what the rest of McKinley could only dream of, but she still views him as an idiot.

Perhaps he is.

"_Pukey._" Quinn snaps sternly.

"What?"

"There are seven months left until the end of the year, are you seriously telling me you can't pull shit together and graduate along with the rest of us?" she's preaching from the high horse of her straight-A average and whiz girl persona, and it takes all of Puck's self-control not to chide her for her words. Or better yet, bring up the fact that for a girl so dedicated to trigonometry and chemical reactions, she has long committed herself to a career in modeling instead of opening herself up to her full potential. That would surely earn him a good, long enough rant to run for his truck.

"I'm a lost cause." Puck finally says.

"Rachel Berry's fashion sense is a lost cause. Your grades aren't."

"B-"

"You can't not graduate!"

"That's a double negative."

"You know what a double negative is and yet you insist you're an idiot incapable of passing?" she asks angrily, face now etched with irritation. She turns her body towards him, staring desperately into his eyes.

"There's no hope!"

"We'll help you, damn it! We'll pull up your GPA, we'll talk to Miss Pillsbury about your grades, we can even get Mister Schuester to budge and give you extra time on your papers!" he bites down his bottom lip thoughtfully. He isn't an expert at probability, but he knows that repeating his senior year over graduation is more likely than it being the other way around.

"Hey, hey" she captures his attention (as if that's truly difficult) by grasping her tiny fingers around his face. She tilts his head towards hers, and he meets the B he knows. The B that very few know. The B whose B doesn't stand for Queen _Bee_ or _Bitch_, but _best friend._

She doesn't let anything slip through her fingers. She suffocates people with love and adoration and hopes it compensates for truly earning it herself. It's this impeccable feeling of being wanted without condition. He can't help but envy how good Mike has it. He has this _and_ more.

She is a dreamer and a lover, and for a boy whose only ever dreamed of a peak at a hot MILF's goods and has only ever loved waffles, it's something absolutely beautiful.

"B, I don't know…" Puck trails off hesitantly. What's the point in struggling to the finish line all so you can fall flat on your face in dismay?

"But I do, and I know everything, remember?" her arrogance makes him more aware who he's dealing with, and that gives her words have more weight.

"Quinn, I-"

"Gimme." Quinn demands before reaching into the pockets of his military coat and fishing out a crumpled piece of paper. Inscribed on it is each one of his shameful, first semester marks. He can see Quinn's eyes gleam with distaste, but he doesn't feel the least bit criticized. Yet again, her habit for overlooking the obvious for the sake of bliss comes into play.

"I can work with it. _We_ can work with it. A couple of tutoring session, some credit recovery and we'll have you boasting about your diploma before you even know it." Quinn says brightly, her sparkling white teeth practically blinding the Mohawk-haired boy.

"What would I do without you?" Puck asks softly, grasping her chin in what he hopes initiates some sort of romantic vibes from Quinn.

"Die."

"That would actually be very likely," he presses his forehead against hers, and she doesn't hesitate to make herself comfortable in his grasp.

It stings even more.

He wants there to be malice behind such gestures. Puck wants to feel Quinn's large, romantic comedy inspired heart beating against his chest. He wants to see her cheeks turn blood red and her hazel eyes to flicker with so much damn love he'll run for the hills, just as the undeserving Mike does. Puck wants something as fucking inappropriate as his hands on her ass to be inappropriate, not something so completely natural because he's Puck and she's Quinn.

And he knows Quinn, and knows that princesses always end up with prince charming.

Even if prince charming is a douche who couldn't deadlift half what he can.

"Promise you'll try?" asks Quinn hopefully, eyes vulnerable and wide. He bites down on his lip, cussing to himself. The child-like wonder and expectation in her eyes makes it difficult for him to do anything but what she says.

"Promise?" she pushes on, an overlay of force in her otherwise sweet, gentle voice.

"I…" sighing, he pushes a curly strand away from her porcelain doll face instinctively. He takes in a long breathe, contemplating the next few words that he shall allow to slip out from his tongue.

"I promise." Puck is a man of his word. He and Quinn are identical pair in that sense. When they love, they don't love half-speed, they overcompensate. It's been that way with everything in their lives. Perhaps the only difference is that he channels his passion and drive towards shenanigans whereas she channels hers towards Mike.

Puck has yet to figure out which one is more psychologically damaging.

She's beaming now, and he feels a rush knowing that he has provided her with everything she wants. If Puck is to die tomorrow, he'll be able to guarantee he has made three accomplishments in his life; became a state-wide expert in the field of women's genitalia of the sexual sort, been the best 'bro' and 'lesbro' to Sam and Santana respectively and gave Quinn everything he can.

"Thank you, Pukey." Quinn gushes.

"_Thank you_, B" he responds meaningfully. She begins biting down on her lip, as if she's just about to speak up again, when the bleachers above them begin vibrating. It's footsteps, he quickly realizes. Puck almost forgot that his place of solace is also a popular lunchtime location for a number of McKinley's losers.

She untangles her limbs from his grasp gently, retracting her arms and placing them around her waist. Accordingly, he shuffles to his right to create a companionable distance. Maybe she is the girl of his dreams, but for right now, she is his best friend. And for right now? He can settle.

"Papa?" a voice breaks the comfortable silence between him and Quinn. It's familiar. Not like the mirthful if not slightly dull voice of Sam or the snappy and raspy voice of Santana's, but familiar enough for Puck to know it's, well, familiar. From the look of realization taking over Quinn's face, she does as well.

"Papa! I got it!" the squeak in her voice and the 'thud' against the metal bleachers make Puck's face scrunch together in realization. Rachel Berry. Unlike the intentional blonde sitting beside him, he doesn't imagine Rachel's untimely demise. He doesn't envision her falling into mud puddles or losing her voice like Santana either. He doesn't think of her. Period. But every other chance he gets, he can't resist the temptation to throw a slushie (that's perhaps the kindest beverage he can throw her, all things considered) towards her.

He doesn't know if its driven by loyalty to the quayhem, who are basically the dictators of every decision he makes, or because she continues to be everything he can only dream of.

"Get daddy on the phone, papa!" they can hear her unsteady, hyperventilating breathes from where they sit. He looks over at Quinn yet again, chuckling at the deep scowl on her face.

"Daddy?"

"Daddy?"

"The speaker goes into your ear!" chides Rachel before finally letting out another yelp of pure joy.

"I-I got it," her voice trembles through the silence, much to Puck's interest.

"An audition! D-Daddy, I got an audition!" Puck's anticipating Quinn's irritated remark. Turning towards her, thoughts of spoiling whatever gleeful moment Rachel is having plaguing his thoughts, when the sight of Quinn's face drained of color. Even with the light blush against her cheeks and the pinkness of her Mac raspberry liplgoss, she looks almost like a ghost. He wonders why that is, and right when he's about to reach over and grasp her shoulders, she sprints away, a determined, aggravated glimmer in her eyes.

* * *

The speed in which Quinn Fabray's long, pale arms reach for her is so undecipherable that Rachel Berry needs to think back to it for the sake of recalling it. It isn't until her small, frail body awkwardly falls back against the ice-cold bleachers that she even realizes such a thing occurred. Perhaps it's a mechanism for denial. By denying the fragment in time, she can escape the knowing scowl occupying Quinn's face.

Moreover, she can escape this unmistakable feeling of being caught. There was this one instance in the Berry household regarding the case of the stolen Barbra Streisand bobblehead from their trip to New York City a good two years ago. Thievery did not leave a sting in her chest, but facing the disapproving looks of daddy Leroy and papa Hiram definitely did. She didn't do guilt—she did petrified. She did humiliated. But guilt? Never guilt.

Guilt would insinuate that her actions are wrong. But Rachel never makes mistakes, especially towards other people, because when she rests her Tony award against the podium and delivers her speech, they won't be mistakes. They will just be her means to her fairytale ending. Somehow, someway, it justifies almost everything.

If only others could see it that way.

"What the-" Rachel's protesting voice is interrupted by Quinn's own, stone cold voice.

"How could you?" she's glowering now, much like the wolf in little red riding hood. And considering the amount of food Quinn consumes in one gulp, she wouldn't be too surprised if she tried to eat her herself.

"How could I what?" Rachel asks slowly.

"Wow!" Quinn exasperates. From the looks of it, the only thing preventing her from causing further damage is Puck coming between them, apathetically staring Rachel down.

"What?" hisses Rachel.

"You nasty little cunt." Rachel swallows the heavy lump in her throat. Hearing such vial words flowing from Quinn's mouth of all people couldn't be more unfitting if she tries.

"Excuse you," says Rachel, feigning ambivalence. The less Quinn sees the fear in her eyes, the better.

"Excuse _you_! How could you?" demands Quinn, hazel eyes turning darker with each passing second.

"I didn't do anything!"

"I heard you over the phone."

"Stalk me much? I didn't know you were into girls now," Rachel fidgets under both Puck's domineering stare and Quinn's bordering on psychotic rage. But she refuses to admit to her actions. Not if it means losing him.

The sight of Mike and Quinn's exchange in the auditorium comes to mind. She saw what neither Mike nor the all-knowing Quinn wouldn't dare acknowledge. She saw the boy whom many of her songs are dedicated to slowly and unknowingly falling into her trap. She saw her heart be stolen, only to be crushed by the sight of Mike's application glaring right at her moments later.

And just like that, Rachel is renewed. Lying to Quinn, lying to herself; it will just be her means to her fairytale ending. Somehow, someway, it justifies almost everything.

"You bitch! How could you do that to him?" explodes Quinn angrily.

"I know your petty intellect-"

"I have the highest GPA in the school," the blonde's anger subsides long enough to state that sentence, rather arrogantly, really.

"… Is incapable of properly using syntax, but if you expect me to take your accusations the least you can do is properly inform me of what those accusations are," the brunette continues, barely blinking when Quinn relaxes her body and stares at her coldly yet harshly.

"Mike's Julliard audition." Quinn seethes.

"His what?" inquires Rachel, piquing her eyebrows up questioningly.

"What did you do to it?"

"Again, his what? Last time I checked, there's only one Mike Chang in this school and all his applications are Ivy League bound," and it's true. God, is it true. But apparently, as Mike's best friend, being privy to the fact that he was trying to steal Julliard from her is a privilege she doesn't deserve.

"Don't play dumb."

"I'm not playing anything!" argues Rachel.

"You knew he applied to Julliard, didn't you?" asks Quinn, barely relenting when Rachel's lips form into a bemused smirk, if only out of anxiety.

"No, I didn't." Rachel denies yet again.

"That's a lie."

"And why is it a lie, miss Quinn Fabray?" the sarcasm drips off Rachel's voice, and Puck has to grasp Quinn's annoyingly tiny waist to keep her from lunging at the fellow Jew.

"Because if he actually got a fair chance, you could only _dream_ of getting an audition to Julliard," Rachel doesn't know what hurts more: the truth in her words or the fact that Quinn believes it. Quinn's love may be far from pure, it may be far from actual love, but she has this unwavering belief in Mike. The kind of belief Mike could only wish for and Rachel could only aspire for.

When did the shallow pit that is miss head Cheerio herself become a bigger dreamer and believer than Rachel Berry herself?

"I am confident that my exemplary talents-" her voice is strained as she says this, because she isn't exemplary. She just isn't. If she were confident, she wouldn't have placed Mike's Julliard application in the shredder. If she were confident, she wouldn't have let the typical sight of Quinn chasing after Mike change her feelings towards him. If she were confident, she wouldn't be lying through gritted teeth just to salvage the remains of the only friendly relationship she will ever have.

"Julliard lets in _one_ student per school!" Quinn points out, surprising both Rachel and Puck with her knowledge of the Julliard administration.

"They do, don't they?" muses Rachel.

"Which _means_, that it was between you and Mike."

"Was it?" asks Rachel tiredly.

"Which means… That you sabotaged him!"

"Did I, now?" her voice oozes of coyness. She sounds confident and sure, despite her perspiring armpits and her itching hand telling her otherwise.

"Quit playing coy."

"What is it with you and games, Quinn? Puckhead and your little Ken doll don't run around like headless spinach aren't good enough players?" Puck and Sam, Sam and Puck; Quinn's two, not-so-dynamic bodyguards. Quinn may buzz like a bee, but her sting is based on how far Sam and Puck will go to appease her. And then toss in her partner-in-crime, and Quinn has her entire motley crew to wreak havoc while she enjoys the awards.

"Headless spinach?" Quinn's eyebrows shoot up in absolute confusion.

"I refuse to make insults of the animal slaughtering nature."

"Wait, what?" both Puck and Quinn say simultaneously, much to Rachel's irritation.

"I didn't sabotage Mike." Rachel states bluntly.

"You're lying," says Quinn, barely missing the window of opportunity to say just that.

"And you're paranoid," she reasons.

"You just can't handle it, can you? You just can't deal with the fact that you aren't the only one with dreams." Quinn accuses. This girl really could go on forever with her insults. If it were a profession, she's sure Quinn would already be monopolizing the entire industry.

"What would you know about dreams? All you ever dream about is getting in Mike's pants." Quinn's face drains of color before firing up again, cheeks burning red and blonde hair displaced in all direction.

"And all you ever dream about is having him act like your little bitch so that you can feel better about yourself," Rachel wills herself not to find any truth behind her words. Scrambling for a response, she decides to go with the safe route; fight fire with fire.

"What I think is that you're the one doing the sabotaging." Rachel says matter of-factly, earning a reprimanding glare from an all too silent Noah Puckerman.

"Excuse me?"

"What, you think making me out to be anything less than the most important person in his life will make him fall into your lap? Just get over yourself, Quinn. You and Mike? That's about as likely as you ever growing a brain." Rachel scoffs at the idea, sneers at the idea and cackles for good measure. She has to believe it. Quinn has to believe it all; that Rachel would never hurt Mike, that her words are mediums to get mike all to herself and that if Quinn wasn't so stuck up and Mike wasn't so hung up on disliking her, they may stand a chance. Maybe if she buys the entire charade, there's a chance Rachel may make it out of this alive.

"I'm class valedictorian!"

There's more to her words, Rachel knows, but Quinn is immediately put to rest by Mike trotting up the bleachers, a determined, irate glare catching them both by surprise. Instinctively, Rachel grasps her nose with her index finger and thumb and squeezes it. The pressure allows her nose to flatten, even just for a split second. Boys don't date beak nosed girls.

"What the-" Mike begins, stopping at the very row all three are standing in. He glowers protectively, grasping Rachel's arm lightly and pulling her aside.

"She's a liar!" exclaims Quinn. Her eyes move from Rachel's tiny form up to Mike's frustrated dark eyes. She can see her staring at him pointedly, as if anticipating that he'll acknowledge her discovery and fall into her arms. Rachel watches as Quinn almost relishes the entire thing. It's absolutely sickening and pathetic…

_Almost as pathetic as stabbing your best friend in the back_, Rachel thinks solemnly. No. It would be all right. The ends justify the means.

"Stop," Mike doesn't say it with a hint of irritation. Nor does his anger seep through his voice. He says it with exhaustion. He holds his hand up, interrupting Quinn's tirade. This isn't a typical argument between Quinn and Mike, Rachel realizes. Those arguments are witty and amusing (at least to the eyes of an observer _not_ head over heels for one of them). Those arguments have Mike subconsciously leading her on, and Quinn charming her way through it. It's this game of cat and mouse, honey and the bee.

But this argument?

It's the furthest thing from.

"_Mike_," says Quinn pointedly, eyes flickering from Mike to Rachel over and over again.

"Just stop, 'kay?" demands Mike.

"She fucked Julliard up for you," Quinn slips out of Puck's grasp, stepping up to meet Mike's own dark eyes with her desperate one.

"Fabr-" begins Mike.

"And she keeps lying about it, too!" she continues.

"Seriously? Sto-" Rachel can feel Mike's arms tense up against her own, stumbling back slightly at Quinn's voice interrupting him again.

"How can you defend her?" asks Quinn in utter disbelief, wringing her arm away from Puck's wary grasp.

"Because she didn't do it!" Mike clarifies.

"Mike, she _did_ it!"

"Do you have proof?" he questions her, releasing Rachel's arm and crossing his left arm over his right arm.

"Are fucking kidding me?" asks Quinn breathlessly

"Do. You. Have. Proof?" Mike enunciates every word slowly, blinking his eyes rapidly to prevent his own temper from flaring up.

"Well…" she trails off.

"Well?" pushes Mike.

"She called her dads! Yeah! She told them about getting a Julliard audition!" exasperates Quinn, an all too cocky grin taking over her face. The seriousness of the situation doesn't settle in until Mike's own deadpan rings through her ears.

"And how does that somehow lead up to her "sabotaging" me?" he mocks.

"How long have you been listening?"

"Long enough."

"Then you would have heard her bragging to her dads about sabotaging you!" says Quinn, eyes casting away from Mike briefly to send the deathliest of glares towards Rachel. Stepping back again, Rachel wraps her dainty arms around her form, sucking in a breathe.

The ends justify the means.

"I was letting them in one of the greatest occurrences in my life, Quinn!" Rachel points out.

"All thanks to Mike!" snaps Quinn.

"How?" Mike intervenes, stepping right in Quinn's line of view to prevent Rachel from witnessing their argument.

"How what?" she asks.

"How is it all thanks to me?" Mike clarifies.

"Because this bitch wouldn't have gotten her foot in the door if she was up against you," she points directly towards Rachel spitefully.

"You're paranoid, Fabray" is all Mike says in response.

"I am not paranoid, I'm trying to look out for you!" her voice cracks as she says this, and Rachel doesn't need to see Quinn's face to know her typical composure has long been abandoned and she's given into pleading her case as opposed to arguing it.

"I don't need you looking out for me!" hisses Mike.

"Someone's got to and clearly this one isn't doing a very good job."

"She didn't do anything!" Mike says yet again. It's a never ending argument they're having, and either one would sooner fall down the bleachers ten times over than relent.

"Ask her." Quinn dares him, eyes gleaming with stubbornness.

"You're being ridiculous."

"Ask her."

"I won't ask her anything! I know she didn't do it," she doesn't know if it's the heartwarming sensation of being trusted or the soul crunching guilt of betraying that trust that makes Rachel's heart skip a beat.

"How are you sure?"

"How are you? Did you even consider that maybe… That maybe…" he's stuttering now, and any semblance of abrupt confidence he has is waning. Even from behind him, she could see his anger subsiding and the disappointment overtaking him. Rachel almost forgets that in order for her to have gotten this audition, he can't. She wonders how much he wants this. Would he ever want it as much as her? Probably not. Mike and desire never go hand-in-hand. It's always a matter of what he _has_ to do, never what he wants to do.

But judging from the way Quinn's eyes cloud sympathetically, and the way her hand almost reaches for his cheek before he sways it away, she may know exactly how much she wants this.

And maybe that's why she was quick to attack Rachel. Not because she wanted to (even though she has jumped at the idea of attacking Rachel for no reason before) but because she was concerned. She worried about his reaction to losing Julliard and potentially losing Rachel as well. She thought of him, and barely thought twice about how it would effect her.

This girl is either the best manipulator Rachel has ever seen or a tragic martyr.

"Maybe what?" she asks quietly.

"Maybe I just didn't get it." Mike's voice is void of emotion or pain, and that's when Rachel knows he's truly hurting.

"That's preposterous."

"Is it? Is it really? Did you even see what I submitted? Some pathetic excuse of an application barely worth reading! I recycled old admission essays and even used my old dance recital videos," he's scoffing and fidgeting, and Rachel doesn't know whether or not to spill the damn beans or to keep her mouth shut. There's so much self loathing in him that all he can do now is turn to Quinn and narrows his eyes.

"They didn't want me, Fabray. And you don't get to use it as ammo so you can hurt her _again_!" he turns it around. Wallowing in self pity can only be tolerable for so long.

"I wasn't-"

"But you were, because you're _you_. That's all you ever do, try and find excuses to hurt her and make it about 'us'" Mike's pulling out all the stops, and Rachel flinches at the sight of Puck already tightening his fist. He has never said such words of harshness to Quinn, nor has Quinn ever allowed him to without turning it into another flirtatious banner. It's as if she's finally listening for the first time, and it just so happens that what she hears is the gravest words Mike can ever spew.

"I cannot believe you! I was just trying to stick up for you!" she snaps stubbornly.

"Punch out! I am not your boyfriend, I am not your friend and, fuck, I'm not even someone who wants you in their life!" he's moving his hands as he talks, body shaking. It's coming at him fast; the feeling of having your largest, unspoken desires taken from you. And he's doing exactly what Rachel would be; lashing out.

"You're being mean." Quinn's lower lips trembles as she says this. Her eyes are wide like saucers, at least that's what Rachel can tell, and she resembles a little girl whose greatest dreams have been dashed by the cruelty of reality.

"Because I am mean! Because I don't like you! Because we aren't going to happen!" he snaps.

"This isn't…" she trails off carefully.

"What? This isn't about us? Wow, for once in my entire life, I don't have to get into the 'us' you came up with in your head." Mike chides sarcastically, his finger pointing directly at Quinn's forehead.

"Just stop, okay? I get it. You're upset." Quinn says in defeat.

"Because of _you_! You upset me! You screw me up! You sabotage me! You just don't know when to fuck off, do you? Rachel's my friend, she's my goddamn friend, and for someone who claims to like me, you sure as hell don't know how to treat me and her with some respect," he grasps her shoulders now, barely containing his aggravation.

"I-I do!"

"Bitching at Rachel for getting something _she_ deserves is respectful? Filling my head with this illusion that I'm actually the kind of guy that goes to Julliard? That's respectful?" Mike demands, voice a deathly whisper as he stares at her with absolute anger.

"Mike-"

"You don't get to treat the people I love like they're nothing. You don't get to sneak under my skin and manipulate me all so you can feel good. I may have put up with it before, but I sure as hell am not putting up with it again… Just go to hell," he releases her, and she stumbles into the expecting arms of Sam and Santana, who have appeared as if on cue.

Sam's eyes are filled with compassion, quickly ushering her away before the rare sight of the queen bitch herself breaking down comes into view. He runs his fingers through her blonde tresses soothingly, practically carrying her away like an infant.

Santana's eyes are filled with vengeance. Without much effort, she moves past Mike's now awestruck form and makes her way towards Rachel. It doesn't take long before Rachel's ears are filled with Spanish rants and Santana's hot breathe lingers threateningly over her forehead.

And Puck's?

Rachel wouldn't know, for immediately, Puck already has Mike to the ground, three strong punches already thrown in and the promise of more evident from where she stands.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yet another long, mediocre chapter. This took a bit longer because school has been getting in the way of me writing. And yes, I introduced the Quick dynamics (more foreshadowing) and how Puck's feelings will reach its climax later on in the story. Along with that, yes Mike was incredibly harsh here, but keep in mind that he always like to play it safe. The one time he decides to go off the rails and do something off beat, he ends up getting rejected. I needed the argument to stimulate the plot and open things up for them in the next chapter. And don't worry, I won't drag on this whole Rachel lying to Mike thing, it'll come out very soon.

Next chapter: Some (angsty?) Mike and Rachel, quayhem bonding and a Fabang scene!

**Review!**


	7. The Shift in Alliances

The Shift in Alliances

* * *

Turns out, celebratory dinners aren't that uplifting.

Mike Chang supposes that he should swallow his pride, and whatever hints of disappointment that may be wallowing within it, and just be glad. While Mike has only ever dreamed of an alternative path for a matter of days, it has been Rachel's only purpose. The single thing that pushes her to wake up every morning. The single thing that keeps her thriving even after three years of humiliation within the walls of McKinley. The single thing that makes Rachel, his favorite person and perhaps only person, _Rachel._

It is her only thing, and who is he, if not her best friend, to ever dream of taking it from her?

They sit along the red, leather seats of the corner booth at Breadsticks. Rachel sits up proudly, as if to signify that the future is hers and no amount of scowls from the Cheerios, fresh out of practice, eyeing her in distaste could stop her from being happy. Mike, in turn, slumps in his seat, lightly jabbing the over-cooked salmon with his fork.

"I've talked to my dads, and we're planning on driving to New York around Christmas time so I can familiarize myself with the city," Rachel says, her bangs swishing gracefully as she speaks.

"You can come, too" she adds, considering it for a moment before nodding affirmatively. She reaches for a crisp French fry and places it against her lips, waiting excitedly for Mike's reaction.

"Maybe," he murmurs quietly, offering a small smile.

"But before then, I'm planning to drop by Sheets N Things to pick out some bedspreads. I figure that I can take them to New York with me and venture into one of the vacant dorm rooms. You know, see if they fit the vibrations of Julliard," he could feel the excitement radiating off of her. All of her strife lead to this moment, and she'll be damned if she couldn't exhaust every bit of pleasure and happiness from it as she could.

He tries to shake it off, this feeling of a large, unhappy cloud above his head. But perhaps it would do him better to have it there. Maybe then, he could stop allowing Quinn and his own subconscious lure him into a life that isn't meant for him.

"Really?" Mike asks, feigning interest.

"Yes, and you best believe that I'll be rooting for Columbia now!" Rachel announces, reaching over to grasp his arm and shake it for effect.

"Oh?"

"I know, I know. Papa Chang wants you to go to Harvard, but Columbia is more than a fine alternative!" Mike cocks an eyebrow up, wondering if Rachel truly believes that. Columbia may be an exemplary school, but between that and _Harvard_, they both know that if the opportunity comes, that's where he'll be.

"I guess it is," Mike relents, deciding getting into a debate over it is the last thing on his mind. Talking is really the last thing on his mind. But Rachel pleaded that they celebrate, and denying her is the last thing he could do considering he almost got in her way.

_That would mean you actually had a chance_, the cruel voice in his mind chimes in. Who was he kidding? He never stood in her way because she's Rachel fucking Berry; talented, extraordinary and a dreamer. And him? He's just the heartless asshole who tried to take what has and should always be hers.

"Imagine, you and me," Rachel pauses, chuckling at the pop culture reference before continuing on. "Living in New York; me the aspiring your ingénue that everyone roots for, and you the hyper intelligent, brilliant pre-law major!"

"Sounds idyllic,"

"It is, Mike! The future is now!"

"How high school musical of you," he jokes half-heartedly, staring down at his untouched meal.

"What can I say, I affiliate with musicals regardless of how horrendous they may be," her hand still lingers on his arm, and he's sure he can feel her fingers making playing with his arm hairs.

"We should see one if you come to New York with my dads. Maybe Chicago?" suggests Rachel further.

"Maybe," she retracts her hand, truly hearing the ambivalence in his voice. She watches him, scrutinizing him for all that he's worth. Mike can only sink further into his seat, waiting for her angry words to flow from her mouth.

"Not everyone's meant for Julliard," she says it coldly, and Mike can do nothing but clutch his fork and feign confusion. "I know I haven't gotten in yet, but I'm positive that I will," she continues on.

"You are a great dancer, Mike. But again, Julliard is for some people and just _not_ for other people," she's eyeing him now, as if silently daring him to oppose her.

"You don't have to do this, Rach," _More like, she shouldn't be_. Mike is perfectly content lingering in Breadsticks, nodding along with her great, inspiring plans without Rachel ripping off the bandages of denial that helped Mike get through his rejection.

"Why did you apply anyways?" her words are made of steel now, and he can feel her challenging him. Rachel is everything but passive aggressive. Any anger, any annoyance; she shares. She doesn't hold it in, nor apologize for acting on it. It's always been admirable but for right now, it's just fucking annoying.

"I-Well," he scrambles for a response, scratching the back of his head with his free hand.

"I just find it odd considering you never wanted to pursue a career in dance,"

"It was just… A spur of the moment thing," says Mike simply.

"Maybe that's why you didn't get it, then" says Rachel bluntly, biting down her lip as Mike's eyes darken.

"Maybe," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. He scoffs to himself, shaking his head.

"You were never like this, Mike," she says slowly, voice emanating with irritation.

"Like what?"

"Bitter,"

"I'm having a bad week," he points out.

"What, because you didn't get what you _didn't_ deserve and your walking, talking fan club isn't working the pole for you on an hourly basis," his eyes narrow. Why did every one of their conversations have Quinn Fabray embedded in them?

"She isn't-" Mike's quick to defend. As to why, he's unsure.

"You're defending her now? Since when did _you_ defend _her_? She's the one who accused me of something I didn't do," she drones on, scratching her nails against the table.

"And for that, she deserves what she gets, but I don't deserve you jumping on my back for having a bad week," Mike says, breathing in and preventing his temper from getting the better of him.

"You're ruining Julliard for me!" snaps Rachel, voice cracking.

"I'm trying here!"

"Try harder,"

"I'm sorry if I don't feel like acting like your biggest fan," Mike says spitefully.

"You were once, before you got greedy and decided to try and usurp Julliard from me!" she accuses.

"I was just-"

"You know I worked hard for this!"

"I know!"

"Why would you try and take it from me?" he can hear the pain in her voice, and he knows that perhaps he was in the wrong. Scratch that, he was definitely in the wrong. He can only drop his gaze to his jeans.

"I wasn't trying to take anything," he murmurs.

"You knew they only took one student per school,"

"Yes, but-"

"But what?" asks Rachel daringly.

"Maybe I wanted something else! Maybe I didn't want to just be a doctor or a lawyer," Just saying it shakes Mike completely. He has always felt distant towards that kind of future, but he has never outright decided that it isn't for him.

"You're being ridiculous,"

"Am I? For the first time in my life, I felt like I was doing something for _me_,"

"You were being selfish," says Rachel spitefully.

"You're one to talk."

"Excuse me?"

"Like you don't keep me in the background all so you can feel all high and mighty,"

"That is not true,"

"It is! Rach, you can't deny that you treat me more like a fanboy than your best friend,"

"You're the one who _let_ me," and she's right, Mike realizes. Rachel never made him root for her, act like her doting fan, he did it to himself.

"And I wanted to change that," exasperates Mike, searching Rachel's eyes for a hint of remorse. And as much as he can see it, he also sees the lack of shame in her eyes. As if everything is justified so long as she gets what she wants. It's sickening.

"Unfortunately, you can't," her words are ominous, and immediately Mike finds himself stumbling upon a realization. He knows Rachel Berry's darkness almost as much as her light; he knows her inside and out, and has never once believed her to be wholly good. But maybe he, despite himself, forced himself to ignore what was palpable. Not only is Rachel, his Jewberry, his favorite person, capable of doing wrong; she's capable of wronging _him._

"Did you do it?" his voice is over a whisper. He watches her carefully, gauging her reaction completely.

"What?" asks Rachel silently.

"Did you really screw up my application?" Rachel simply blinks, already reaching for his hand.

"Mike-" he pulls away quickly.

"You may not have to answer Quinn but you sure as hell have to answer me," he says forcefully, his tongue feeling dry against his mouth. He fists his hands, containing himself.

"You do realize what you're asking me here, right?" asks Rachel, feigning innocence.

"I'm aware," Mike grumbles.

"What does it matter, we both know you wouldn't have gone for it anyways-"

"It matters to me," he snaps.

"Mike..." her dark eyes, filled with light a few minutes ago, turn into a shade caught between shame and humiliation.

"Did you?" he asks again. "You did… I-I can't believe-"

"I did what I had to do," says Rachel defiantly, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand before anything else she says could worsen their predicament.

"Even if it meant losing me?" demands Mike forcefully, standing up and glaring down at her. He presses his fists against the table, clenching his jaw.

"I already felt like I was-"

"And now you already have," he's rummaging for a ten dollar bill in his pockets, fishing out a twenty instead. He shakes his head, deciding to just leave a large tip. Putting it down against the table, he cuts her off as he begins to slide out of the booth.

"I wasn't trying to-"

"And now it's too late… I can't even try to get my application in!" Mike snaps, voice raspy as he stares at her defiantly. He could feel the blood rushing through his system, and his eyes filled with more betrayal than he could ever muster. He understands the roles he has played. He knows that everything Rachel has done, he has contributed to. He just never fathomed that her ambition would be the single entity that broke them.

"Please just stay," but he doesn't. He pushes past her pleas, past the waitresses, past Sam Evans and Noah Puckerman and pushes through the doors, met with a gust the wind on his face and the reality of his circumstances.

* * *

The speed in which Quinn Fabray consumes the chicken quesadilla is almost un-human like. Never mind the fact that it's leftover from the weekly quayhem game/booze night a good four days ago. She rests her body in the wooden, dining table seat, her right leg at a ninety degree angle pressing against her chest and her arms slithering around to grasp the food before her. Her head is hovering right above the recently imported Parisian plate, hazel eyes cast upon it.

The characteristic, if not completely irritating, sound of Kim Kardashian's nasally voice fills her ears. However, even Quinn can't deny that listening to the socialite go about her daily life, rather stupidly, is comforting. Just like this quesadilla, in all of its cheesiness and deliciousness.

"Head out of plate, B. Pukey and Balls are bringing us take out from Breadsticks," Santana Lopez commands, her curvaceous body resting along the ivory white couch. A tight, blue and white striped tube accentuates her body, exposing her long tan legs. Santana's raven hair is curled into seductive ringlets, her face painted with eye-catching colors of different tones. It's a far cry from Quinn's own attire; a loose, worn out red cheer camp T-shirt and her light pink, polka dot underwear.

This isn't typically case. More often than not, Quinn's dowsed head-to-toe in subtle, designer items that make her look like a hybrid of Audrey Hepburn and Marie Antoinette. Then again, more often than not, Quinn believes herself to be in love with Mike Chang rather than detesting every cell in his entire, perfectly sculpted body.

Just as it has been for the past few days, Quinn's mind lingers back to her and Mike's conversation. He has never been shy about his contempt towards her. Most of the time, it's far easier to ignore it and shake it off instead of truly taking it into serious consideration. But there was something about how his eyes showed no hint of amusement, the kind it typically has despite what he likes to think, that truly struck her nerves.

He was different in that moment: cold, domineering and distrusting. A far cry from the boy she has fallen for ten times over. Wasn't prince charming just supposed to magically fall into your lap in those definitive moments?

She was different in that moment; desperate, hurt and dark. A far cry from the girl who never let a single one of Mike's worse phase her because even the greatest love stories take time and pain. Wasn't Cinderella supposed to be far more indestructible than that?

"You do realize that's leftover from four days ago, right?" Santana asks rhetorically, turning away from the commercial for Proactiv and sauntering over to the Fabray's large dining table. As per usual, Russell and Judy are currently captive at a bible study and would predictably be venturing off to a high priced, snooty Italian restaurant right at the outskirts of Lima. Based on Quinn's almost scarily accurate mental clock, they wouldn't catch her in another one of her spirals.

_Which means I can spiral_, Quinn decides defiantly, taking another bite of the quesadilla still in hand.

"And that they're bringing grilled salmon. Isn't that what you uptown Lima bitches are into?" continues Santana in distaste, crinkling her nose at the thought of the orange-pink fish. Quinn internally rolls her eyes. At least her taste pallet ranged beyond breadsticks.

"Better than high carb crap you all eat at Lima Heights," says Quinn snippily.

"Says the girl who's drowning herself in food," Santana's voice is blunt and unfeeling, but Quinn could already feel her prying gaze resting upon her lips. They've been at this all afternoon post-Cheerio practice. Santana's comfort would come in different forms, each one differing from the other and yet sharing a common thread; compliance. Santana would reiterate what Quinn says in hopes of allowing her to pull herself together, and each time, Santana has been sentenced to the couch.

"Be a bigger bitch, I dare you," she grumbles back coldly.

"Then I'd be you, and that would suck," returns Santana pointedly, raising her professionally plucked eyebrows.

"Amen to that," slurs Quinn.

"Come on, stop eating. The Kardashian's are on!" Santana enthuses, grabbing onto Quinn's dainty arm and shaking it until she relents. Anything to distract her from spiraling, Quinn is sure.

"Truly mentally stimulating stuff." Quinn likes to consider herself a cut above today's modern day teenager. She finds as much excitement in Shakespeare prose than she does the latest episode of Jersey Shore. She is enthralled by Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly's personas in their films as opposed to the poorly made, unoriginal romantic comedies of today. Her hearts lives in the past while her body remains in the present. But even she finds comfort in watching the idiocy that is Kim Kardashian trotting through life in her hooker heels and pouty lips.

Unfortunately for her, no amount of mind numbing television would get her to stop eating.

"Is that quesadilla mentally stimulating?"

"I'll tell you when I'm done."

"Quinn, if you don't stick your head out of that plate, I'll stick my fist down your throat-"

"Better than my finger," Quinn says icily, glaring defiantly into Santana's frustrated dark orbs. She's challenging her to make another snide comment, and when nothing comes out, Quinn knows she has prevailed.

It's something if Quinn was just being regular Quinn: dramatic, overly sensitive and needy. That, for sure, Santana knows is fleeting. It's Quinn merely being Quinn. Her tolerance for pain is barely existent. It's the curse of being surrounded by upper class privilege and three, strong bodyguards. She's a little girl in a big girl's body.

Santana knows how to handle _that_ Quinn; a few choice words, reality TV and an hour or so in the Fabray's hot tub.

It's quite another when Quinn falls into her spirals. They're rare now, a large improvement from her constant spiral all throughout freshman year. It is because of its rarity that Santana has never become accustomed to handling it. Hell, even Quinn's own overly-involved, slightly delusional parents have next to no clue how to handle Quinn in her spirals.

"TAKE OUT!" Sam Evans' loud voice breaks the tense silence, holding up a plastic bag to both girls' view. Behind him trails Noah Puckerman, holding a tray with different color slushies resting on it. Closest to him is a grape slushie, already half finished, with its straw inside his mouth. Quinn untangles her limbs immediately, trotting over excitedly and ignoring the flabbergasted expression on her best friend's face.

"I'm starving," announces Quinn, taking hold of the plastic bag and already rifling through it.

"We got pasta," Sam tells her, reaching into the bag. "And salmon, your favorite, and breadsticks, for San, and look!" Sam enthuses, pulling out a mini-Italian chef on a motorbike. "I got the kid's meal with Chef Badass!"

Just as Santana's methods of comfort are her own, Sam almost always take a different approach. He's exuberant and radiating with glee, hoping that it would eventually rub off on Quinn. Unlike Santana or Puck, who confront her head on, he is slow and patient. In moments such as these, Quinn recalls why Sam is far more collected than herself, Santana and Puck.

Sam may be, on the outside, far more childish than Quinn could ever imagine being. He could even be far more abrupt than Puck on occasion. But he's subtle and sweet. He examines situations before falling into them, and does it without yelling or throwing tantrums like the rest of his friends. Sam isn't just kind, he's simple; there's nothing too complex for him because he doesn't want it to be.

But Quinn's attention has already drifted to the actual food, grabbing hold of the plastic bag and striding towards the dining table. Puck joins Quinn and Santana, crinkling his nose in distaste at the sight of the gaudily extravagant Fabray dining room. For a family who believes the meek shall inherit the Earth, they sure don't try and downplay how much money they have.

"Hey, that's my pool money, B. _Share_," snaps Puck, taking the pasta container before Quinn could engulf it like a vacuum to dust.

"I'm nursing a broken heart," exclaims the blonde, reaching over until Puck holds it up.

"Get over yourself." Puck snaps cruelly. She could tell she's been wearing them all thin. They're comrades, yet, but there's no doubt that Quinn demands far too much from them.

"Excuse you," she hisses.

"I'm not the only one who's thinking it," Puck says pointedly, turning to Santana, who nods in agreement and Sam, who guiltily stares down at the marble floor.

"Fine, what are you all thinking then?" Quinn demands.

"How are you sure she even did anything?" Santana speaks up, broken out of her reverie long enough to ask Quinn. Quinn's eyes darken. Since when was Santana Lopez an advocate for man hands herself?

"Who? Rachel?" asks Quinn.

"Who else?" asks the Latina rhetorically.

"Because I could just tell," she says, as if that solves everything.

"That's a guess," Puck points out.

"It's an accurate guess," Quinn grumbles.

"But still a guess. Maybe you're wrong, B," murmurs Sam gently, joining them all in the Fabray's lavish dining table and reaching for Quinn's hand.

"I'm not!" Quinn snaps.

Sighing, Puck relents. "Well, you aren't," Quinn's eyes move towards Puck's frustrated expression. "Even if you didn't actually _know_ for sure," Puck trails off.

"What's that supposed to mean?" presses Quinn.

"Berry told Chang," Puck elaborates, thinking back to the argument between Rachel and Mike.

"So she did do something?" says Quinn, an all-too gleeful smile on her face. Puck can only stare, wondering if Quinn could even _see_ her innate selfishness coming out of the blue.

"She threw his application out," Sam explains, when Puck can only stare expectantly at Quinn.

"What?" says Quinn, slightly baffled.

"I thought you knew," Santana comments.

"It's different when you know for sure!" Quinn exclaims joyously.

"So you never actually knew for sure?" snaps Puck, raising his eyebrows. They're easy on Quinn, because she's the fragile little queen bee and if they aren't, she'll break. But its moments like these, when Quinn believes she can get away with anything unscathed, that Puck can't help but regret how much they let her get away with almost everything.

"I had a hunch,"

"And you wonder why Chang was pissed off?" Santana asks Quinn pointedly, arms crossed angrily.

"Okay, fine, I was being a paranoid, vicious bitch. Back to RuPaul!" the blonde admits.

"Well yeah, she chucked his application," says Sam.

"Is he still applying to Julliard, then?" Quinn prsses.

"Yeah, cause Chang, Balls and I sit around, drinking booze and talking about our futures," Puck murmurs sarcastically.

"I heard something about it being too late," Sam intervenes, sensing the irate vibes from both Santana and Puck. Patience could only be their virtue for so long before they eventually knock Quinn out.

"How is it too late?" asks Quinn.

"Why do you care? He was acting like a menstruating pussy with his pubes sticking out," comments Santana crudely, glaring up at her best friend. She wonders to herself if Quinn is truly better than them, if she is truly far more open to love than any of them, or if she's just another dumb blonde.

"That's disgusting," Quinn says, crinkling her nose in distaste.

"I don't know, the deadline's almost up or something," that's all it takes for Quinn to practically jump off her seat and run towards the couch, whipping out her phone.

"W-what are you doing?" stutters Sam curiously. Quinn presses the 'speaker' button and raises her finger to silence them.

"Julliard Administration Department, Courtney Meyers speaking," immediately, all three sets of eyes widen, each person shaking their head. Could Quinn really be this dumb? This intrusive? This reckless?

"Good evening, this is Julia Chang. I'm calling in regards to my son, Michael Robert Chang Junior,"

The answer? Absolutely.

* * *

Mike Chang rests his back along the suede couch within the Chang's family room. He keeps his eyes shut and allows his long legs to dangle off the ledge of the couch. He covers his eyelids with his arm, breathing slowly and easily despite Rachel's confession ringing through his ears.

She is his best friend…

No, _was_. She was his best friend.

She was his favorite person. She was the yin to his yang, the fire to his ice, the sunshine to his rain. Aren't opposites supposed to attract? Isn't that the theory of all romantics and scientists and naturalists? Maybe that's all it is, a theory in which foolish love stories are based upon. A myth, to put it lightly.

But at the very least, she is… No, she _was_ his foil. Maybe that's why they destructed each other. Maybe opposites can only come together so far before the fundamental differences (and the frightening similarities) come creeping up on them. Maybe that is the problem, and has always been the problem that made for such a conflict between them-that they aren't all that different.

Rachel may be a burning star with a passion that could challenge almost anyone in her path, and Mike may be an ambivalent piece of space that allows for things to get through to him; but that doesn't necessarily mean they are different where it counts. They are different, sure, but it isn't the kind of 'different' that makes for a supportive, companionable friendship. It made for a dominant-submissive, somewhat dysfunctional friendship. A friendship where they began to rely on the other to fill the missing pieces, instead of relying on each other to help nurture those less dominant.

"_Mikeee_!" calls Julia Chang from the kitchen, her thick, accentuated voice making Mike groan. On any given occasion, he could deal with his mother's antics (such as cleaning abruptly late at night or singing karaoke and forcing him to join along). He even enjoys it every now and again. But as far as he's concerned, the rest of his weekend will be spent in this couch.

He stands up, dragging himself through the large, immaculate halls and into the kitchen. His mother stands in front of the stainless steel oven, the scent of soup instant entering his nose.

"I made wonton noodle soup," she elaborates, smiling gently towards her son.

"I already ate,"

"No, no. That wasn't real food," Mike chuckles lightly, running his fingers through his hair. He has to admit, his mother's wonton noodle soup does sound tempting right now.

They are broken out of their domestic reverie when loud, continuous knocks and constant doorbell rings blast through their home. Wincing, he watches his mother exhale sharply, handing him the glove she was just about to use to pour the soup, and moving through the halls. Her slippers screech through the hardwood floors, reinforcing her frustration. Mike turns to the over, turning it off and pouring the soup himself. He's sure it's another one of the neighborhood kids who lost their soccer ball in their backyard.

Mike grasps the bowl and reaches for a pair of chopsticks, taken aback when his mother takes longer than usual. Taking a quick slurp, he cringes at the heat against his tongue before following his mother in suit.

"Mama-"

"CO-LUM-BUS, CO-LUM-BUS!" Sam Evans and Noah Puckerman chant arrogantly, clad in their signature Titans jerseys, as they crowd the Chang residence's double doors. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, grinning towards Mike's perturbed mother.

"Dude, are those noodles?" asks Sam distractedly, inviting himself into the Chang residence and walking towards Mike. Mike raises his eyebrows at the blonde, pulling away.

"What are you doing here?"

"Can I have it?" before Mike can comply, Sam already takes hold of the bowl and takes a single chopstick, clumsily fishing out a noodle and trying desperately to get it in his mouth.

"What is this about Columbus?" Julia pipes in, staring at her son expectantly before meeting Puck's flirtatious smirk.

"Good evening, Julia," whistles Puck, resting against the door frame only for Mike to glare towards him.

"Dude!" hisses Mike protectively.

"How do you know my name?" asks Julia slowly, crossing her arms as she examines the boy, silently judging his Mohawk from what Mike can tell.

"Quinn told us," Puck explains. Even from where Mike stands, he can see his mother's affectionate smile threaten to creep up her face.

"I would prefer Mrs. Chang," Julia is quick to correct him, fumbling with her words as the attractive eighteen-year-old continues to survey her saucily. He sends her a wink, signalling Mike to intervene.

"_Puck_, what are you doing here?" asks Mike.

"Chang, how could you forget?" Puck asks, feigning confusion as he stares at Mike with pseudo force.

"Yeah, Mike" adds Sam half-heartedly, wiping the soup on the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. "How could you forget?"

"Forget what?"

"The away game at Columbus,"

"Away game?" asks Julia, turning to Mike.

"I don't know what-" Mike is cut off by Santana Lopez's figure approaching, holding up a classic red Titans Jersey with the number twenty three and his last name messily sown on. Santana stands beside Puck, clad in her Cheerios uniform, before she speaks up.

"Mike's on the football team now," she announces, showing the jersey to Mike's confused mother.

"S-Since when?" stutters Julia, turning towards Santana and Puck.

"Yesterday. Our old kicker had to bail. Something about herpes," a crimson blush appears on Julia's face, forcing Mike to step away from Sam and towards the door.

"What the-" before Mike can finish his sentence, Puck already steps in, handing Julia what appears to be an official permission form with Principal Figgins, Coach Tenaka and Coach sylvester's signatures at the very bottom.

"We have an away game against the team at Columbus. It's on Saturday but we were thinking of heading there tonight to get some extra practice in," Puck explains, only for Santana to laugh as if on cue.

"More like we're going bowling," she says, nudging Julia charmingly.

"Mike, why didn't you tell me about this?" snaps Julia, turning away from the two rowdy teenagers to face her son. Mike's eyes immediately widen, just about to protest when, from behind Julia, Sam now appears and shakes his head. The significant height difference allows Mike to see Sam clearly, raising his eyebrows when Sam mouths, 'go along with it.'

"I-Um…" Mike stutters, shaking his head. "I-I wanted it to be a surprise?" he lies blatantly, still staring at Sam, who sighs in relief.

"Columbus is two hours away," Julia continues on, checking her watch. "And it's six in the evening! Michael, this is incredibly irresponsible of you! We still need to pack your things and call your father. You know he doesn't like things coming out like this. And what about insurance forms? I have yet to get money from the bank so you'll have some pocket money. Not to mention, the laundry hasn't even been folded yet. What about your underwear?" Julia rants on, as if already listing the things that must be done. She scratches her temples, walking into the house and walking in different directions.

"Is that a yes?" Santana inquires, and from the corner of Mike's eyes, he's sure he spots an unmistakable glimmer of sunflower hair lingering behind a red Volkswagon Beetle.

* * *

"_What?"_ snaps Mike, stumbling away from Quinn Fabray and her merry crew as they stand around her vehicle. Quinn stands right in front of him, tugging his beige duffle bag forcefully. Beside her stands Santana, arms crossed as she helps Quinn tug on the duffle bag which Mike is fighting to keep by his side. Behind them, Sam is still engrossed by the _second_ serving of noodle soup he has extracted from Mike's mother. Beside him is Puck, who can only roll his eyes at his best friends' shenanigans.

"Fabray, are you out of your mind? Y-You just lied to my mom!" Mike exasperates, using his strength to tug on his duffel bag. He should have known better than to open the door to her merry crew.

"Technically, _they_ just lied." Quinn points out, gesturing to her friends.

"I can't just go to New York City!" exclaims Mike.

"It's done," says Quinn.

"It isn't done! Do you even have any idea how far New York City is?" Mike snaps, looking towards Santana, Sam or Puck for support. It doesn't come.

"Five hundred and ninety two miles according to Google Maps," Santana answers for Quinn, smirking cockily as she tugs even harder.

"I'm not going," he's just about to turn around when Quinn speaks up again.

"Don't be such a big baby. Everything's already taken care of. Technically, there _is_ an away game-"

"Which we were all supposed to go to _together_ before you decided to wuss out, B." Puck snaps, scowling in distaste. It's one thing for Quinn to decide to play heroine to Mike's douchebag in distress, another for her to ruin their away-game plans.

"Cork it, Pukey,"

"And technically, you will be back by Sunday!" Sam points out, noodles falling from his mouth.

"And you are technically going on a trip." Santana offers.

"I said Columbus, not New York!" Mike says slowing.

"It's a change in direction," says Quinn simply.

"A ten hour change in direction," Mike reminds her.

"Sometimes you have to break the rules," reasons the blonde, grasping his arm gently. He can feel himself growing tolerant of her, going as far as actually relaxing in her grasp and _listening_. He gulps. _Damn Quinn Fabray effect._

From behind her, he can see Puck's longing stare quickly melting into a frustrated glare, turning away from the sight and walking towards his truck.

"The cut off for Julliard applications is on Sunday," explains Quinn softly. "They say that they're only taking face-to-face applications now,"

"T-That's over, Fabray," says Mike slowly. Just thinking about it makes his stomach sink.

"It isn't over, honey. Not if you don't want it to be,"

"I-It's just… Damn it, it's _crazy_!"

"Crazy?" Quinn laughs humorlessly. "Crazy is letting it _go_, not going out to get it!"

"I don't even have a dance prepared," says Mike.

"You can think of something," Quinn replies.

"I don't have any music!" exclaims Mike.

"Bring your iPod,"

"My parents will smack me like the hand of God if they find out,"

"They won't,"

"What if I don't get in?" he says it silently. Rejection bruised the first time, albeit the fact that it was due to Rachel sabotaging him. He doesn't know if he can handle it again.

"Then you can say you tried." Quinn's staring at him expectantly, daring him to do something unpredictable and wild; to want and to love wanting.

"New York City?" Mike finally relents, smiling towards her. This is insane. No one goes to New York City on a whim or auditions for Julliard with some recently thought up routine. No one gets in a car with a mad woman for ten hours. No one does it.

"New York City." Mike says decisively, nodding as he jumps into the passenger seat.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I have to admit, this chapter was extremely fun to write. There was a bit of angst in the beginning, but generally it was fun. Especailly the quayhem plus Mike dynamics. Don't look so relieved yet, Rachel won't just disappear from this story and Puck will definitely get into the Fabang stuff eventually. But for now, let's enjoy our beautiful Fabang working together. This chapter also brought up hints of what, in the next chapter, will later be discussed in regards to Quinn and her "spirals." It'll be elaborated on a bit more, but it's somewhat obvious and there have been hints in earlier chapters. So just giving the readers a heads up in case they don't want to read that sort of thing.

Next chapter: **Fabang road trip! Tons of bonding, cute moments and angst!**


	8. The Drive

_The Drive_

* * *

_7:30PM_

Mike Chang is in a red Volkswagon Beetle.

Mike Chang is in a red Volkswagon Beetle on highway 30 East.

Mike Chang is in a red Volkswagon Beetle on highway 30 East on his way to New York City.

Mike Chang is in a red Volkswagon Beetle on highway 30 East on his way to New York City _with Quinn Fabray_ _on his way to audition for Julliard._

He doesn't know which part of that sentence feels more surreal.

He is a boy of obligation. He is bound by family and pride, never by his soul or his heart. He is a boy who sees things in black and white, as opposed to what they are. That is who he is. That is who he should be.

But that isn't who he wants to be. Maybe it has taken years and a few startling encounters with Quinn to make him realize that. Maybe he isn't even completely sure if he can stick true to his wishes and go on with choosing dance, choosing life and choosing happiness over approval. Maybe he is fighting against who he is in an act of rebellion.

But he owes it to himself to know for sure.

Maybe that's why he admires Quinn, so sure and so passionate, no matter how foolish the cause. She may have her follies, like her arrogance and misleading optimism and double standard. She may not even be his favorite person (then again, his favorite person did stab him in the back). But she's sure of who she is and what she wants, and that makes him admire her.

Not that he would ever say that out loud.

That's what makes this okay, fighting against who he is and who his parents want him to be and the damn rules. Because he owes it to himself. He owes it to himself to be selfish. He owes it to himself to chase for his dreams instead of chasing for other people's dreams.

He shakes off the guilt and replaces it with excitement and anxiety.

"Focus," snaps Quinn Fabray, hazel eyes still fixated on the highway as she slaps Mike's thigh. "I am not driving all the way to New York fucking city and back so you can do the Macarena," she grumbles, pointing to the pad of paper with routines listed.

"I was just thinking," Mike reassures her.

"About?" she asks.

"I thought you knew everything about me," he can't help but say, a coy smirk on his face.

"I'm not professor X, I can't read minds," he doesn't know how or why, but her X-men reference makes him momentarily believe this girl is the love of his life, if only for the sake of their comic book compatibility.

"That would be pretty awesome, reading minds and being bald…" Mike trails off.

"_Focus_," Quinn hisses.

"I've been focusing for an hour and a half," he points out.

"So?"

"I need a break," Mike tucks the pad into the

"You can take a break when we get to the motel,"

"Motel?"

"You didn't seriously think I'd be driving until six in the morning, did you?"

His first kiss was his dog, Blondie. His first girlfriend was his mother's deceased cat, Mrs. Snugglepuss. His first time watching porn was last year, after accidentally clicking a pop-up. He's about as experienced in the art of sharing a motel room with a girl, who he still has yet to completely like or dislike for what she's doing to him unconsciously, as a ton of bricks.

"Relax," she chuckles lightly. "I won't be sneaking into your pants," and for the first time since he has known her, he actually believes her. She isn't coming on strong, she isn't seducing him with every trick in Santana Lopez's book or pushing him into her love. She doesn't suffocate him with the fog of her supposed love. And for the first time, he feels like he can actually see things; see _her_.

And sadly, Mike may just like what he sees.

* * *

_8:00PM_

"Stop that," before Mike can fathom what Quinn means, she grasps his shaking leg with her right hand and steadies it into a motionless state. Mike's eyes flicker towards her hand, watching as she subconsciously grips his knee ever so slightly before hesitantly slithering her fingers away.

"It's a hab-"

"Habit, I know," Quinn is quick to supply, glancing towards him briefly and smirking triumphantly. He should have known. She knows every detail about him: his dreams, his habits and his interests all without actually knowing _him_.

Mike bites his lip pensively. They are bound by their dynamics: Quinn playing the cat and him playing the mouse. Even if he has never taken to Quinn's bordering on unhealthy obsession with him, he prefers it to the alternative. That being Quinn, the shallow bane of his existence, is an actual human being who could potentially be good for him.

Then again, Rachel has already proven to be the alternative of the person he believed her to be. Why not budge and take a chance on the girl who has done nothing but begged for it?

"Can I ask you something?" Mike asks her curiously, clasping his own knee to prevent shaking his leg again.

"That constitutes as asking me something, honey" Quinn answers coyly.

"I'm being serious," he says lightly.

"So am I,"

"Why me?" Mike decides to interrupt her, watching her completely. It's always been a question not only on his mind, but every other person in their school. Hell, in their small town. What is it about him that made the alpha female herself so crazy? "What was so special about me?" he adds. Every now and again, it passes his mind. What has he said or done to get Quinn's attention and unwaveringly keep it for three years?

"You know, you just gave me an _amazing_ opening," he rolls his eyes, turning off the car stereo and allowing silence to overcome them. "Okay, cards on the table," Mike says decisively, sneering impatiently. Yet another reason effect Quinn has on him: the ability to lure out the hint of anger residing within him.

"You should do aggressive more. Its super sexy," Quinn comments, hazel eyes flickering towards him and admiring every inch of his body. Mike feels goose bumps rise from his arms, causing him to yank down his sleeves and hide them.

"Fabray," Mike stops her.

"It's just a fact," he slumps into his seat, crossing his arms. _Figures. Try and talk to the blonde bitch bimbo and she-_Mike's inner monologue is put to rest by a huff on Quinn's part.

"Alright, alright. We'll have a heartfelt conversation discussing our hopes and dreams and inner demons," she rants on in defeat, only for a tiny smile to appear on her unwilling face. "I'm whipped,"

"And you wonder why I avoid you," he says.

"Why? Because I don't take things seriously?" she asks him, raising her eyebrows.

"Basically,"

"You only get one life. Are you really going to spend it being serious?" Quinn says vibrantly, eyes flickering with absolute belief.

"I never took you for the 'live today' type" Mike says slowly, taking in just how different this girl is in comparison to the strutting, self-centered beauty that thrives on other people's pain.

"You never took me for anything," she says matter-of-factly.

"Which leads me to my initial question: why me?"

"Honestly?" Mike nods her on.

"I have no clue," she says in defeat. "I've tried, believe me I have. There are plenty of other guys in McKinley. There are guys who are a lot more attractive and a lot more fun and a lot kinder _to me_. There are guys who are in the same social ranking and could easily get me Prom Queen," Quinn lists on, scratching the back of her free hand before allowing it to fall back onto the wheel.

"And you should be with those guys," he says decisively.

"They aren't you," Quinn reminds him.

"But what's so gre-"

"I don't know! You're just _you_! You just breathe a certain way and smile a certain way and _are_ a certain way and I just can't get over it," she looks at him. "I don't want to," she murmurs quietly.

"Why not?"

"You know how some people say true love comes with time?" he nods. "Some people wait for ten years, others twenty, and me? I'm seventeen and I've already found it," Mike wonders just how much Quinn romanticizes love, and if she's even aware of what it truly entails.

"But I don't even feel the same way," Mike says quietly.

"I know,"

"And?"

"I'll wait," she says firmly.

"Until?" he asks

"You're ready," she doesn't say anything further. She just focuses on passing over to the next highway, drumming her fingers along the steering wheel.

* * *

_9:00PM_

"So how did you get your lackies to help you with this, anyways?" Mike asks Quinn curiously. He glances down at his rough sketches, realizing that he is almost halfway done with his audition piece. It isn't groundbreaking, but it does showcase some of his better dance moves that would hopefully win the administration over.

Bizarrely enough, Quinn merely frowns and swats his question away with a swipe of he hand in the air. "How did you get the queen of the hobbits to dish about Julliard?" she asks him pointedly.

"I asked you first," Mike feels the need to say. Stumbling onto the topic of Rachel only hours after they've separated isn't necessarily something he feels like discussing with Quinn.

"And?"

"And so you should answer me,"

"We're the quayhem, we'll always be at each other's corners," Quinn says quietly yet passionately. For as long as he can remember, the quayhem have been joined to the hip. In his mind, it's more of a defense mechanism against the turbulent waters of high school as opposed to a true bond of friendship. But his argument with Rachel and his split-second decision to fight for something other than his parents' approval has given him perspective.

As the distance between his home, surrounded by the classic green fence, grows, he finds himself growing too. He feel extroverted and talkative, something he never is in Lima. Or maybe, Mike just isn't like that with anyone _but_ Quinn. It would make sense, considering that his most outspoken, passionate moments always take place with her in the area.

It's with this knowledge that he decides to open up-to say it all for the sake of saying it.

"I doubt that," says Mike slowly, biting his lip as Quinn shoots him an indignant glare from Quinn.

"You don't know the first thing about us!"

"Enlighten me," he gestures towards her, urging her to contradict him.

"We're a support system. Four pieces of one whole," Quinn says affectionately, scratching her nose briefly. Afterwards, she just shrugs. "You wouldn't understand. Rachel Berry has been your Svengali since freshman year. You don't know what it's like to feel bonded to a group," And there it is, the Quinn Fabray he knows: always throwing rocks at things that shine.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't have any other friends,"

"I never really needed them," he grumbles defensively. Mike hears this enough from his mama, he doesn't need to hear it from Quinn, too.

"Maybe, but all I know is that if you hang out with one person only because there's no one else, it says a lot about your friendship," says Quinn bluntly, shrugging nonchalantly.

"Rachel's my favorite person, Fabray. You don't think it's eating me up that I'm actually trying to sabotage Julliard for her?" He catches a glimpse of Quinn's nails digging into the wheel, forcing him to stop before he says anything else that could get them whirling off onto the side of the road.

"Even after she sabotaged you?" asks Quinn icily.

"Even after that,"

"Well then you're ridiculous," Mike raises his eyebrows. "Friends don't hold themselves back to let the others feel better, they push you to your breaking point and encourage you to compete,"

"Like you and Santana?" Mike asks her, genuinely intrigued. The two's relationship has always been a point of interest for him, just another misshapen puzzle piece thrown into the unsolvable mystery that is the sunflower blonde by his side.

"Yes, exactly like that. Every second of every day, I'm always waiting for her to shell out a better routine, a better manicure, a better car-a better _anything_. It's what keeps us growing and keeps us as on-edge as possible," she says proudly.

"And you guys don't fight?"

"We fight all the time. We say things that no one should ever say. But at the end of the day, Santana still picks up the phone and listens to me talk-mostly about you-and we still make fun of RuPaul and we still say we love each other," she glances towards him meaningfully.

"I'm not saying you need to have ten friends," she continues. "But I just hope you're friends with Berry-"

"We aren't friends," he pipes in silently.

"_I just hope_," Quinn continues, ignoring his comment. "That when you finally find a good friend, and by good friend I mean someone who is sane or whose nose doesn't look like it's about to stick out and jab everyone in its path, make sure that it's like that. It's as much about growing together as opposed to keeping each other down," he casts his dark brown eyes briefly, moving them up again before moving them down finally.

Apart from Rachel, Mike has always been at a loss for friends. He's never alone; he's always in the company of fellow students, acquaintances and dancers at the local Lima Community Dance Center. But every memory of his high school career has always had Rachel in the picture: always the force that keeps him demure and hidden behind the scenes as she hangs onto every bit of starlight she can.

"Like you?" he asks, eyes still cast on his lap as he now intertwines his fingers.

"I'm not your friend, honey," Quinn answers hesitantly. Mike glances up.

"Funny, because when you're not stalking me or trying to lure Rachel away from me with a signed Funny Girl playbill-"

"It was Mama Mia," Quinn corrects him.

"… _Or_ throwing pebbles at my bedroom window or jumping out of cakes or trying to seduce me," her eyes darken, as if she's already expecting another jab to the chest. It only comes to show that no matter how unwavering her affection for him may be, his words will always mean more to her than it ever does to him. "You've probably been the only one who has ever…"

"Taken the time to see you and push you into being this great, extraordinary man I know you to be?" Quinn adds quickly, staring at him meaningfully as they stop at a yield sign. He flashes back a look, he's not exactly sure what sort of look, but it's enough to make Quinn's eyes soften even more.

"Something like that," Mike says hoarsely.

"And you said I should give up on you," she says with a taunting, triumphant smirk. "See? My mater plan is working! You'll be mine!" Quinn says, letting out an evil cackle to try and gain a laugh from him. Mike can't help but laugh along with her, his cheeks burning with pain as a resolute grin remains on his face. She's still looking at him, waiting for him to protest what she says. Mike only looks into the glass window to his right, relaxes his forehead against it and lets out a breath. Mike doesn't know what to say, nor is he ready to say much of anything.

He briefly catches her nod from the corner of his eye. She nods her head, consuming what he says without pressing further. Right as he's about to stare back into the abyss of the highway's streetlight lit highway, he captures a deep crimson blush take over her face.

* * *

_10:00AM_

Quinn Fabray sits daintily on the couch of the oh-so luxurious, welcoming motel room number 216. _It comes with its own dust and filth_! Quinn expresses sarcastically to herself, glancing around in mild distaste. She scowls, the sight of the grimy couch furthering her dislike. It's a far cry from the luxury resorts or hotels that her parents have taken her to, but the company isn't bad.

_It's far from bad,_ Quinn's scowl deflates into an appreciative smile. Listening to her heart instead of her mind and her friends' certainly worked out in her favor. Logic, self-respect and peer pressure all attempted to stop her from concocting her effective scheme. Why help the guy who so carelessly takes your heart hostage? Santana never would, nor would Puck or any self-respecting human being. Yet Quinn still did it, not because she desires to score some much needed face time with Mike (although it does help) but because it matters to him. Because if she didn't, he wouldn't have.

In typical Quinn Fabray fashion, she easily slithered out of her previous attire: a bright yellow cardigan over a lace bodice and a pair of white cargo pants, and into her pajamas. She tugs down her nightwear crop top, the baby blue shade reminding her of her aunt's newly born son. It has lace resting on the straps and surrounding the hem and makes her look every bit like an elegant princess. Her fingers then slither down to her comfortable, cotton pajama pants that extend farther than her leg and have occasionally led to her tripping.

She watches the bathroom door, waiting until Mike comes out. One, because based on three years of research, he sleeps without a shirt. Two, because she desperately needs to brush her teeth.

Quinn grinds her teeth.

On cue, the sound of Mike fumbling with the bathroom lock. Is it wrong to expect him stepping out with nothing but a towel covering his bottom half with hot drips of water trickling down his perfectly sculpted chest? Or maybe just nothing at all? Or maybe his voice calling her in? She mentally slaps herself. She said so herself; she wouldn't try anything. She wouldn't push him any more than she has. It has been her game plan since September anyways; play it cool, play it safe, play it spacious. He would come around if she gave him the allowance to.

Now if only she could tell her unsatisfied, repressed and raging teenage hormones that.

He steps out, a dark blue shirt covering what Quinn hoped to bare. The shirt hangs snugly along his curves though, revealing his toned yet slim physique. Below that is his Toy Story manufactured pajama bottoms. Green aliens are printed equidistantly on the otherwise black background. They hang awkwardly around his ankles, his height proving it to be long outgrown. It isn't the sight she's initially hoping for, but it doesn't stop her from biting down her lip in interest. Mike looks like a little boy in search of milk and cookies before a good night's rest, not like prince charming or her leading man in a debonair suit.

And yet, she's more than okay with it. It's disarming, seeing him so damn open and vulnerable with her.

"Bathroom's free," Mike announces, gesturing towards the bathroom. Immediately, Quinn gets up from her seat, keeping her hazel eyes on the carpeted floor as she makes her way to the bathroom. Looking around, she spots her make up bag and rifles through it in search of her toothbrush. Whipping it out and placing it under the warm water, she reaches for the toothpaste and places it on the brush, running it through her teeth. Quinn glances into the room, noting that Mike is reaching for the spare blankets. It doesn't take long before Quinn saunters over, mouth still foamy, as she yanks the blankets from his grasp.

"What?"

"No," Quinn blubbers through the foam.

"Fabray, sharing a bed isn't exactly-" he tries to explain soothingly, only for Quinn to shake her head profusely. The thought hadn't even come to mind.

"No. Couch. Me," Quinn says in fragments, feeling the foam about to trickle out of her mouth.

"Don't be stupid," answers Mike, moving past her and making his way to the couch. Quickly, Quinn walks over, hitting his shoulder. He flinches, glaring at her weakly.

"No!" she manages to choke out.

"I'm the guy!" Mike exclaims. He turns around to meet her indignant stare. "_Sexist_," it's the final word Quinn is able to say before the toothpaste foam sputters ungracefully out of her mouth and directly onto Mike's chest. Mike fumbles back, groaning as he surveys the damage made. The blonde instantly whirls around, finding the sink and secreting the leftovers. Her eyes cloud with humiliation, cheeks funneling with unflattering redness.

Taking in a long gargle of water, Quinn spits it out and regretfully sighs. Gaining courage, Quinn turns away from the sink and back into the room, where Mike's fingers twist along the hem of his newly ruined shirt.

"I didn't mean to-" he waves off her worries, using his grasp on his shirt to slowly slide it up his form, back turned towards her. She catches a glimpse of his back tensing and loosening with each movement. Her eyes hungrily scan each inch of flesh coming into view. Quinn rests her body on the bathroom door frame, mouth agape as she memorizes every muscle of his body.

"Seriously, I'll take the couch," Mike says, tossing his shirt on the couch and turning towards Quinn. He stops dead in his tracks, the sight of Quinn's awed face petrifying him. Or at least, that's what it seems like in Quinn's only mildly functional brain.

"Um…" Mike trails off, scratching his back with his right arm as he glances around the room for a distraction. Eventually, Quinn manages to pull her hungry eyes away from his toned physique and meets his face.

"D-Don't be ridiculous, I'll take the couch," she manages to stutter out weakly, moving away from the doorframe and towards the blankets. Yes, blankets. Non-muscular, non-sexy, non-erotic, non-drool worthy linens.

"I'm not letting you sleep on the couch." Mike says sternly, lingering behind her and taking hold of the blankets. Quinn grasps the other end, tugging on it forcefully.

"I'm not sleeping on the bed," she says curtly.

"I'm trying to be a gentleman," he reasons, tugging the blankets to his side.

"Well stop, okay? You can't very well audition tomorrow with a broken back," snaps Quinn, turning around and grabbing a fistful of the blanket and yanking it in her direction. He stumbles towards her before scowling irritably.

"I really doubt the couch will hurt _that_ much," Mike coaxes her worries, stepping back and pulling even harder. She stumbles forward, almost losing her grip on the blankets.

"It's like a damn rock. You'll screw up tomorrow if you sleep there!" she protests angrily, about to tug on the sheets when Mike yanks them again, forcing her even closer to him. Stupid, perfect muscles.

"Yes, great way to convince me otherwise," murmurs Mike sarcastically, taking his other hand and pulling the blankets closer to his side.

"Just take the stupid bed," Quinn complains, dragging her heels against the carpet now.

"No," he tugs.

"Yes," she pulls.

"No," he uses every bit of his strength to pull the blankets towards himself.

"Yes! Mike, I swear to God, just sleep on the stup-" Quinn's rant is cut off as her entire body fumbles forward, falling into a mass of bed sheets before stumbling towards Mike's general direction. The scent of cheap laundry soap consumes her as her face falls right in between two sheets.

"What the fuck?" asks Quinn irritably, tugging and finding her way out of the knots only to realize that her blanket cocooned form rests right above Mike, whose own back has now fallen on the double size bed. Her head rests right underneath his chin, the movement of his Adam's apple being the first thing she truly feels.

"And this is why you wouldn't win a tug of war," Mike says tauntingly. She narrows her eyes, already expecting his overly condescending and serious, albeit handsome, facial expression. Scooting up to meet his eyes, she's taken aback by his grin directed in _her_ direction.

He's smiling _at her_.

_Maybe I've fallen into blanket heaven,_ she thinks to herself, still staring at him in absolute awe.

"You have a bit of an unfair advantage," Quinn croaks out.

"The fact that I'm stronger than you?" Mike inquires, raising both eyebrows questioningly.

"Something like that," she says with a playful shrug.

"Here," he grasps her waist with both hands and slowly sits her up. He takes hold of the joints between her legs and her thighs and carries her covered form bridal-style before planting her feet to the ground. He takes hold of a loose edge of a blanket right along her ankle and begins to undrape her. Mike unwraps her slowly, stopping and changing direction whenever Quinn would flinch, before going on again. He manages to free her legs before moving up to chest. He unties her carefully, dark brown eyes fixated on the blankets while her own hazel orbs see only him. His hands trace along her collar bone as he unwinds the remains of the blanket from her form.

"Thank you," she whispers, gently taking hold of the blankets he now has in his hands and taking them from him. "I'm sleeping on the couch,"

* * *

_11:15PM_

A blanket of darkness covers their motel room. After much protesting on Mike's part, she finally convinced him to allow her to occupy the couch as opposed to the bed. She readjusts her back along the hard pillows of the small couch, crinkling her nose as the horrendous scent fills her nose. It's only a matter of time before cockroaches and rats appear, really. She sucks in a breathe, her mind far too consumed by the past few hours' events to really focus on anything else.

Since their departure from Lima, a drastic change in the weather has taken place. It's an alternative universe, almost. A universe where Mike is this bundle of ambitious, bright-eyed joy and recklessness who seems to take to _her_. A universe where every word she says doesn't feel like it falls to the ground. A universe where they have conversations and share jokes and actually see each other.

Quinn thinks it has something to do with Mike. He's rapidly becoming more open and free around her, neglecting to filter his thoughts and put up his defenses. Then again, who's to say Quinn isn't changing? Surely a few months ago, she would be cuddled up to him and planting one thousand kisses in every spot available. She would use every romantic quip and gesture; and yet now she isn't.

_Maybe I'm just growing up_, it would certainly explain a lot. She glances over to where she knows the bed is, trying to imagine his figure resting along it. It's the closest they have been, minus the car ride. Quinn takes in a slow breathe, wondering how she has managed to knock down Mike's defenses.

It's far too simple to say that he just _felt_ like opening up to her. No, it can't be that simple. What is it that made him see her, talk to her, like an actual human being as opposed to a real life Barbie doll scheming her way into his heart?

_The fact that you aren't acting like a Barbie doll_, a sarcastic voice rings through her mind. She isn't acting like the epitome of perfection. She isn't acting like a damn damsel in distress for him to rescue. She's acting like _herself_, whoever that may be. She's acting grounded and true to he own being, as opposed to shape shifting to what she believes to be his specifications.

"Are you still awake?" she asks, just loud enough for him to hear. She keeps her eyes wide open and gaping into the dark abyss of where his figure is. She hears him shifting, and from what she can tell, he has turned his body towards her direction.

"Mhm, can't sleep," he answers her, scratching his head. "Can't sleep either?" he asks.

"Not yet," she says ominously.

"Quinn?" it doesn't escape her that he actually says her name.

"Yes, Mike?"

"About what I said…" he says gently. "I really shouldn't have said any of that," he's referring to their argument; the trigger for her spirals.

"Most of it was true," Quinn points out weakly.

"Not all of it,"

"Which parts weren't?" she can't help but ask curiously. She hears him sigh in defeat.

"Don't lord it over my head, 'kay?" he pauses. "Most of it wasn't,"

"Oh really?"

"Really, Quinn. I mean, yeah, you make me a bit crazy…" Mike trails off.

"A bit?"

"Okay. You make me _very_ crazy," Mike relents. "And you don't know when to stop and you suffocate me," Quinn scoffs.

"I'm waiting for the good part," she interrupts him.

"_But_, you're the only person who has ever… Cared. Aside from Rachel, anyways. And although I always thought you did it because you were 'in love with me'" Mike says slowly. "I know now that you actually _really_ do it because you want what's best for me, regardless of how badly I treat you or what it does for me and you," Quinn nods to herself, taking in what he says. Maybe she has been playing it wrong for so long. Maybe the way to his heart isn't true pestering or romantic gestures, it's the process. The process of being herself and opening up and allowing him to do so as well.

She doesn't respond for a bit, just continue to stare into the darkness pensively. He coughs inwardly, trying to grab her attention.

"Still up, Quinn?"

"For you, always," she says out of habit. He only chuckles in response. They lay in silence again, Quinn's mind falling numb as she examines their circumstances. Finally, she speaks up.

"I started jazz and contemporary dance lessons when I was eight. Everyday, my mom would brave the steering wheel even if she'd almost crashed our car into the garage a number of times. I'd go and I'd dance, and I loved it. Not like you love it, not in that 'I'll only ever want to do this' sort of way, but it was uplifting and fun and just so damn exciting. I learned I was athletic. I tried other things before it; softball, soccer-none of it worked for me. But I could move and I could do it quickly.

My dance teacher, Kellson, said I'd be good at gymnastics. I was the only girl in my dance class who could do splits and tumbles. So I joined. I learned it was an entirely different thing. It wasn't like dance, all about movement and melody, it was about control and precision and grace. I saw the other girls, practicing day in and day out, always making sure they ate all the right things. And I'm competitive, as you may know, so I learned the game that is competitive gymnastics. I ate vegetables and fruits and when I heard they were giving out awards at the end of the course, I cut out dessert. Even apple pie!

I was around eleven when my sister won Coach Sylvester, who had just gone to McKinley at the time, her first national championship. I saw how adored Frannie was. She had so much spirit, so much passion. I wanted that. I joined the cheerleading league the following summer. I walked to the field and saw all these girls, all beautiful, all smiley and all fit. God, I admired them. I wasn't fat by any means, just not a skeleton like my sister.

Gymnastics and dance helped me keep up with the routines, but I couldn't quite move as quickly or go up as high. There was this one girl, Tracy. She was a _stick_, around a hundred pounds, and she went up the sky like a fucking rocket. Everyone paid attention to her, and for an upper-middle class brat like myself, that got to me. I started going for longer runs, adding on more pounds to my weights and began to reduce my eating portions. Anything to be the prettiest, most talented, girl in cheer camp.

Somewhere between just wanting to do better, I began revisiting my breakfast in the toilet and passing out in between classes. But I got to be flyer for sectionals and one-upped Tracy for head cheerleader. I thought I was doing something right. Weeks later, I was diagnosed with builimia nervosa. They make it sound so official and cut-throat, when really all it is, is me eating like a fat pig. I was a mess.

My parents were worried, obviously. No matter what everyone says about us being stone-cold, heartless WASPs; we are a family. They looked over me, took care of me, worried for me, but I could see how disappointed they were that I had to throw up just to be perfect. That I had to binge just to be spectacular.

Doctor Shepp said I had an obsession with being pretty. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired, so I told myself I'd find a way to stop. But you never really stop, you just sort of take breaks. I realized that if all I wanted was to be pretty, I just needed to hear it. So I'd say it as a mantra, in different ways. On good days, I'd say it once. Something like, 'one extra serving on mommy's spaghetti Bolognese won't change how pretty you are.' On bad days, I'd say it five, maybe eight, times. A bit more grave, such as, 'Show those guys just how pretty you are. Run circles around the track. Go for ten laps instead of five,'"

Reflecting on her history makes her heart throb quickly. She doesn't know what possesses her to just spill her guts out for him to hear, but it's done. Maybe it's because she wants what she's giving him: security. This belief that you can be yourself, whoever that is, and be accepted anyways. He may not have the same sentiments, but imagining he does somehow just makes her feel better.

Or maybe she just wants to say it. The rest of her friends have figured it out through habit of her parents' hushed whispers. But it's the first time she's unveiling the truth for someone, and she chooses it to be him. It's been a whirlwind of insecurity and dysfunction for five or so years. Although her condition isn't nearly as rapid as it was in the past, it's still something living within her. Always lurking and waiting to take over her overly optimistic heart and mind. Quinn swallows a lump in her throat, waiting for his response.

"You don't have to tell me this," he doesn't say it cruelly, but as if he wants to prevent her from having to relive her past.

"I know… I want to. I want you to know _me_… I want to know me," she isn't a Barbie doll or a princess, and maybe that's okay. Maybe it's better than okay.

"But why?" he can't help but ask.

"Because… Whether you and I end up together or we end up just being whatever we are," Quinn explains slowly. "I want you to know who I really am. I'm not all bright lights and sunshine like you think I am-"

"I never thought you were,"

"Why not? I always act like it around you,"

"Because you're a puzzle,"

"Excuse me?"

"Since I've known you, you've been one big, unsolvable puzzle. Sometimes you're bright, other times you're dark. Sometimes you're warm, other times you're cold," he elaborates gently.

"Is that bad?"

"You've always kept me on my toes," he answers her simply prior to sighing.

"Quinn?"

"Yes, honey?"

"Don't take this the wrong way," Quinn gulps fearfully, clasping the blanket tightly around her as she waits for his judgmental words.

"I'll try," she murmurs weakly.

"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever met," her heart skips a beat. She knows it must have. Her eyes widen in absolute shock, turning towards him. She tries to find a response, only to come up with none.

"Hear me out," Mike begins. "For the past three years, you've always just been this pest. This buzzing bee trying to sting me," she rolls her eyes, anticipating his words. "But if there's one thing I could _never_ deny, it's that you're… You're just…"

"Just what?"

"Annoyingly, outrageously, unbelievably pretty…" Quinn is gaping towards him now.

"Fuck!" Quinn exclaims, absolutely taken aback by his admission.

"T-This doesn't mean I like, like you or anything!" Mike is quick to add, but Quinn is too consumed with his confession to truly care. "B-But yeah… It's just the truth,"

"Well good, because frankly, being pretty is all I've got going for me," she says boastfully out of habit.

"That isn't true," Mike corrects her. "And you aren't just this happy cheerleader either… You're too complicated for that,"

"That's a good thing, right?" Quinn asks him.

"More than good,"

That's all it takes for Quinn's entire body to submit into a slow slumber. He may not love her. He may not want to be with her. But he does _like _her.

_Which means, I'm on my way…_


	9. The Heaven on Earth

_The Heaven on Earth  
_

* * *

Mike Chang never knew that heaven could fit in the small island of Manhattan.

Yet another life changing experience to put in the books for one awestruck teenager whose entire body is practically falling out of the window.

He isn't one of the most philosophical guys around. He doesn't imagine what heaven or hell actually entails. But if heaven is even half as glorious as the city in which he's in, he'll commit to a lifetime of one-dimensional goodness.

Every spot oozes of individuality. Nothing ever looks exactly the same as another. Even their McDonalds looks more like an edgy, artistic urban restaurant rather than a fast food place! There's so much that Mike can feel his eyes growing tired of excitement and confusion. How do you focus on anything? Mike can't even truly take in a single building or sight, because if he does, he may miss one of the other million attractions to see.

He's sure his jaw is slacking and his eyes are full of child like wonder, and yet his mind can comprehend nothing but the beauty of New York City.

He always believed New York to be overrated. What could be so great about it? It's just a city, like Hong Kong (where he has actually been) or London (where he has actually fantasized of being). The only thing truly special about it is how it believes itself to be special.

But he's wrong. It's everything glorious and perfect crammed into an island. Even its flaws, like the thick smog and the stench of urban living, add to its perfection. It's everything he wants to be; exciting, unpredictable and _alive_.

If you had asked Mike Chang yesterday to give up the smooth-sailing, hyper intellectual existence lined up for him for some illusion of grandeur, he would have bitterly scoffed in your face and selected the latter.

Now? He can't imagine wanting anything else.

They roll through the streets, stopping almost every half-second for a pedestrian or a foul-mouthed cab driver. It gives him all the time to soak in perfection, instead of concerning himself with the imperfection of his make shift routine. He grips his knees with his hands, cringing. He doesn't care if his future in New York involves selling hot dogs on the sidewalk. He'd do it for free if it meant he got to soak up the energy of the glorious borough that is Manhattan.

"Q-Quinn?" he's still ogling the sights, but he needs to make sure that his driver hasn't crashed into one of the many yellow cabs that have cut her off.

"Yes, baby?" Mike smirks. She's changing it up, he notes.

"Just checking to make sure you were alive," he says distractedly.

"That should be my line," Quinn comments wryly. Mike doesn't have to look in her direction to see that signature bemused smirk on her face. Mike shrugs it off. How can he argue? Why would he? He's the majestic jungle of abundant lights and spirit. There's no need for arguing or bickering. He just needs to be _here_.

"I think you were born a New Yorker," he manages to strangle his neck from the window, rather begrudgingly, to listen to her. Mike shifts his body towards her, watching the sights that go by right behind her head, whilst still clinging onto her words.

"I think I was just _born_," Mike tells her exaggeratedly, barely hiding the bright grin on his face.

"I'm in love with a newborn. Great," says Quinn sarcastically, playing with the radio knobs on her car.

"Tough beans, Q"

"Someone's in a good mood,"

"Take a look around!" he gestures left, right, up and down and all around. Everywhere and anywhere; it was phenomenal.

"I know," she murmurs, bemused.

"It's huge!"

"I know,"

"I can't stop looking at it. It's just so-God. I-It's like. It's like-" it isn't_ like_ anything. How could it be when it's indescribable. No English, Cantonese, Spanish or even gibberish word could describe this place. The only thing that could describe it is itself.

"Heaven?" she suggests, abruptly stepping on her break as a group of tourists swarm past her. She's biting down on her raspberry lip gloss covered lips to hide the scowl forming on her face.

"That's an understatement, Quinn. It's absolutely-" Mike's cut off by the car halting yet _again_ for another jaywalker, clad head-to-toe in pink Juicy Couture sweatpants.

"You little bitch!" snarls Quinn, rolling down the window as she glares daggers into the woman's back.

"I'm guessing you're not a fan of New York?" he asks conversationally.

"I'm not a fan of traffic,"

"Which means you're not a fan of New York,"

"What does it matter? I'm not the one who wants to move here," Mike resigns himself back to watching the people of New York go about their weekend, all the while reflecting on her words. It doesn't really matter to _her_; as far as he knows, New York isn't her designated destination post-graduation. But it does matter to _him_.

"I like what it does to you," she says sincerely.

"Really?"

"You look renewed. You look like…" Quinn, despite her promises of affectionless behavior, can't mask the affectionate glimmer in her grass-colored eyes. She's staring at him, the way he stares at New York. She stares at him with this belief that, regardless of its flaws, it's the most indescribable, phenomenal entity in existence.

Aren't they a pair?

"Heaven?" Mike offers coolly, willing himself to meet her eyes.

"That's an understatement," There's this irrevocable tingle in his toes as she says those words. He curls them within his sock. She's already pulling her eyes away from him, as if staring any longer would make her give into the temptation.

_I know the feeling,_ he thinks simply to himself. His jaw slack slightly. No. He doesn't know the feeling. Quinn knows the feeling. She's the one whose drool takes permanent residence on the corners of her lips whenever she sees him. She's the one who stares at him like whatever it is that can trump over heaven. She's the one who lives to feel the feelings she does-not him.

Maybe it's just the Quinn Fabray effect. Lord knows that her effects have always made him privy to mind boggling. But he has memorized her signature effects down to the 'T.' Mike knows that, in her presence, there's this suffocating, conflicting feeling of excitement and absolute fear. It's like straddling the rails of a bridge or standing right in front of a moving train. There's the thrill that is mixed right along with the fright.

And this feeling, this weird feeling of camaraderie and mutual understanding? It's nothing like that. Yes, relating on some humane level with a girl he has always believed to be an Amazonian alien is scary. But it's more than that. It's more than just leveling with her and not fearing that she'll force him to marry her right this second.

"We're here!" she breaks his reverie right on time. Any longer and he may stumble upon some unnecessary thoughts.

They approach Julliard Academy of Performing Arts. He instantly thinks back to when he first braved the rollercoaster at Six Flags. He recalls exiting his dad's mini van with the rest of his cousins after what he, at the young age of nine and a half, believed to be the utmost longest trip of his life. Six Flags wasn't for him. A dance show, on the other hand, definitely was. But after being pestered by his cousins (or being called a chicken, and not the good kind, not like general tso chicken) he decided to take a ride. And getting on that rollercoaster? Gripping onto the rails for dear life as fear and excitement consumed him completely? Feeling the wind in your hair and your worries abandoned?

It's exactly what the feels now.

Mike is made of fear. Not necessarily a paranoid mess or a coward, per say. But he has been born and bred to fear his own capabilities. To fear all the things his heart can desire that his mind, his reality, doesn't wish to desire.

But being scared isn't an option anymore. Not when there is an entire heaven and an entire rollercoaster waiting for him.

"Honey?" Two syllables. Two fucking syllables, and Mike's awestruck stupor is broken. In place is the anxiety. The fear. All it would take is one misstep to make his entire reawakening worthless. What if he trips? What if he's run over by a taxi? What if a swarm of Julliard dancers kidnap him and make him join their little artistic Mafia?

Each possibility seems plausible at this point.

"Breathe," Quinn warns, unbuckling her seat belt as she takes hold of his shoulder. Or at least, he thinks she does.

"Breathe," she repeats. What does that word even _mean_?

"Honey, honey," she plants both hands flat on his shaking knees. She lingers closer to him, practically falling off of her seat and into him.

"Bee," Mike supplies anxiously.

"What?"

"You were saying honey a lot. I just thought of a bee,"

"What, like a buzzing bee or a honey bee?"

"Like you bee," Mike concludes, the temptation to shake his leg growing with each passing second.

"Well then quit thinking about me and start thinking about Julliard," even when she says it, he can feel her growing amused. She has spent better part of her high school career forcing him to think about _her_. Low and behold, here she is, telling him to do the exact opposite.

Oh how the chocolate cookie crumbles.

"I don't see how that's possible," he murmurs earnestly. Quinn's hazel eyes dilate in absolute adoration. Her lips twitch longingly as she gazes down at his. It doesn't take long for her to break free from his trance and back down to reality.

"Are you really doing this now?" she snaps.

"Doing what?"

"Flirting with me!"

"I am?"

"Or your backwards, unknowing way of doing it anyway. Save the charm for the unsuspecting judges and make _them_ fall in love with you; I'm already in love with you. No need to win me over," her conviction never ceases to make him shudder.

"What are you even-"

"Mike. Focus. Julliard." She unsuspectingly leans over to swing the car door open. Quinn barely flinches when a batch of dogs almost scratch her car door, attention resting solely on Mike and his woes.

"I'm-"

"I know," Quinn supplies, as if she could read his mind. Maybe she _is_ professor X.

"It's scary, diving face first into something completely brand new. It's scary, giving into something that you never knew you wanted but have always needed. But if you live in fear, you'll always fear _life_," Quinn sounds so inspirational in this moment, Mike considers bulldozing the entire statue of liberty and erecting her up there instead.

"Will you be here when I come back?" Mike sounds more hopeful than he would like, but there's no coming back from the child-like, vulnerable disposition Quinn has left him in since arriving to New York.

"I'll be back when you need me here," she says, a comforting smile sprawled across her face.

"Is that something you do?"

"Pardon me?"

"Reiterate what I say so I feel better,"

"It's what they did during my therapy sessions," Mike nods affirmatively, finding it in him to return her smile. It's the least he can do after the lengths she has gone to for him.

"I'm not going to say I believe in you," he scoffs.

"You just did," Quinn rolls her eyes, swatting away his comment.

"You already know that I do. All I have to say is this: jellyfish" he blinks once and then twice and then thrice. It's the nerves that are making him delusional, right? Quinn Fabray didn't honestly just use her last words of encouragement to say 'jellyfish,' did she?

"What?"

Quinn doesn't explain further. She just uses every ounce of her strength (which is actually quite a lot for a girl of her size) to shove him out the door. Not push; shove. As in, fall face first into the pavement before hearing her car zoom away. Well, not really zoom. More along the lines of making it three car paces away before stopping due to the never ending traffic.

He sucks in a breath, sizing up the building.

_Jellyfish_

* * *

"Michael Robert Chang Junior," the thick southern accent of one Courtney Meyers sent shockwaves through Mike's body. His eyes feel scratchy: lack of sleep. His armpits smell terrible: lack of deodorant. His legs are shaking: lack of confidence. His heart feels heavy: lack of the Quinn Fabray effect.

He wants her here. He may have trouble admitting to their newfound friendship, if you could call it that, but he has no qualms over admitting this one, simple fact. He wants her here, sitting on the vacant stool to his right, yammering on and on in her boastful tone. He wants to hear the word 'honey' fall from her mouth. He wants to have her hands chaining down his shaky legs. He wants her to do twinkle her hazel eyes at him, say everything that comes to mind and rid him of the weight his anxiety is bringing.

But she isn't here.

_No turning back now._

He stands up, almost tumbling back as the waves of the future hit him hard. He sucks in a breath. How many times has he done so? It isn't long before Mike finds the will to stride through the immaculately yet artistically decorated Administration Office and into the wide and spacious audition room.

It wreaks of culture and aristocracy, the promise of higher education practically leaping off the walls. Beautiful and yet thoughtful paintings hangs all around, with bright windows illuminating light on them. The walls are freshly waved, perfect for dancing.

It's perfect.

Sitting side-by-side like judges on American Idol, are his judges. A willowy blond sits on the far left, exuding a boastful, snooty confidence to her. Beside her is a man who drums his fingers along the table, like a drummer to his drum. In the middle is a silver-eyed man not older than fifty clad head-to-toe in a designer Prada suit. Finally, on the far right, is a man whose dreadlocks sway as he moves his head to the pre-set elevator music playing in the background.

"Name," says the willow blonde, barely charmed by the grin on his face.

"Mike Chang," he pauses. "Michael Robert Chang Junior," he corrects himself.

"Specialty?" continues the willow blonde.

Specialty. A specialty? What specialty? They never said _anything_ about a specialty during the application process!

"What do you _do_?" asks the drummer bluntly, raising his eyebrows as if Mike should have known that.

"I dance. It's what I do." Mike is taken by surprise by the fluidity of his words.

"What is it about dancing that you take to, Mister Chang?" asks Mister Prada Man.

"I'm a natural," They don't seem impressed. He coughs inwardly. "I mean… It's like if I don't do it, I can't do anything else. It's in me, like a disease, and the only way not to get hot flashes," Mike cringes to himself. He's a guy. Hot flashes aren't a possibility. "Or break into hives is to dance!"

They don't cringe, but they don't smile either. They just nod along with him.

"But are you talented?" challenges the willowy blond _bitch_. A few sentences from her and he can firmly come to the conclusion that she is, despite herself and despite himself, a full out bitch.

"I like to think so,"

"You think? You don't know?" she presses.

"I think so, yeah"

"At least he's honest," comments dreadlocks.

"Or just unsure," contradicts Mister Prada Man. Is this what they do, cross-examine him right when he's in the same room?

"Or maybe modest," Mike cuts in daringly.

"Maybe," the drummer agrees with a nod, pointing his finger directly towards Mike.

"Quit it with the questions," he tells the other three. "Let the kid dance,"

"The questions are necessary-" begins the willowy blonde bitch.

"Let talent speak for itself," intervenes Mister Prada Man, gesturing for him to carry on.

"Alexander," hisses the willowy blonde bitch in protest towards Mister Prada Man, only for the drummer to interfere.

"Quit getting so wound up, Ramona. No one cares about personality so long as they've got the talent, regardless of what you and your little publicity firm of yours things," he grumbles before turning to Mike. He sends him a too-bright smile and gestures to the open space.

"Commence," he commands, ignoring willowy blonde bitch's indignant protests. Dreadlocks leans towards the stereo, Mike's iPod already attached. He presses play.

_A drop in the ocean,_

_A change in the weather,_

_I was praying that you and me might end up together._

_It's like wishing for rain as I stand in the desert,_

_But I'm holding you closer than most,_

_'Cause you are my heaven._

He moves smoothly through the course of the music. Selecting another upbeat pop song or Michael Jackson song has been his game plan all along, but something last night triggered him to pick a slower song.

To this date, Quinn Fabray is an unsolvable puzzle. She's a pile of unfit pieces and parts; a series of contradictions that never had any type of arithmetic. But last night, a veil of reality strikes him. It isn't that Quinn is this mysterious, inconsistent being. It's that he's been completely disregarding all the other sides _to _her.

Just as he has been disregarding all the sides to himself.

This song leaves him naked for the judges and administrators. He doesn't care if it's tedious or ordinary; it's him. It's all of his sides coming into play. It's slow and it's sure and it's _heavenly_, just like New York, just like (as Quinn believes, anyhow) _him_.

He'd do just about anything to be a permanent fixture within the bounds of New York City. He'll give them all of who he is, without compromising everything that he _is. _He has forsaken himself for far too long to do so.

He moves like silk to the melody, Ron Pope's scratchy voice offering for a rugged yet wounded appeal. The willowy blonde bitch's gaze grows dark with boredom and the drummer her resigned to drumming his fingers against the table. He swallows a lump in his throat. He can feel his hinges grow tight and his face turn red. Where is the fluidity? Where is the soul? All he can feel is his body caving into the pressure. His hinges tighten, his moves become sloppy. He's losing his audience a chorus into it.

_Jellyfish_

He hears her voice, her honey comb, silky sweet voice as the damn word rings through his head. What good is that word, anyways? It isn't helping whatsoever. He says it to himself again.

_Jellyfish_

Come to think of it, it's actually a really long word.

_Jellyfish_

He thinks about the animal itself. Why would Quinn even suggest a damn hippopotamus to make him feel better?

_Jellyfish_

_When you move like a jellyfish. Rhythm don't mean nothing,_ Mike sings to himself, bemused.

"See? I told you, talent speaks for itself!" says the drummer exaggeratedly. Mike's thoughts are instantly broken. Did the music just stop? What has he been doing, apart from thinking about a stupid hippopotamus? Did he even dance?

"Started off a bit sketchy," comments dreadlocks. "But got a hell a lot better once you started to relax," a breathe hitches in his throat.

_Relax, that's what she was trying to do: distract me. Relax me,_ Mike realizes. He laughs to himself. That girl truly does know him front and back, inside and out.

"I like your style, kid" adds the drummer. "Sort of like a…" he trails off, snapping his fingers as he tries to pin point the word.

"Jellyfish," dreadlocks supplies. "Fluid and symmetrical while still being able to sting us with your moves," he critiques.

"It was rather plain," says willowy blonde bitch. _No surprise there._ "And rather sloppily made,"

"I think it was creative. And your song choice? A plus," asserts Mister Prada man, shutting willowy blonde bitch up. "Now, not necessarily _cutting edge_, per se…" he continues, everyone's eyes set on him. From what Mike can tell, despite his heavy breathing, his opinion actually counts.

"Boring," adds willowy blonde bitch curtly. He tightens his fist, focusing on Mister Prada man's words.

"But he has potential," and just like that, Mike's heaven doesn't seem too far away anymore.

* * *

Amid the sea of people crowding around Time Square, he finds her. How could he not? There's only one girl whose hair is that particular shade of sunflower blonde with a hint of honey gold thrown in. There's only one girl who could pass as an English princess whilst clad in jeans and simple top. There's only one girl he _wants _to see.

Insanity overwhelms him like the people colliding against him, but he couldn't care less. He's at a loss of words or thoughts or breaths. He pushes past the crowd and clumsily yet surely makes his way up the ruby red stairs right. He ignores the hollers of TKTS agents or the irritated grumbles of tourists attempting to take pictures. Mike reaches the top where Quinn Fabray rests, hands resting daintily on her lap as she awaits him patiently.

"Quinn!" Mike isn't entirely sure if there's a smile on her face or if she even realizes its him, and he sure as hell _isn't_ sure if she events it, but he grabs her by the waist and pulls her into his arms. Mike delves into the mass of sunflower blonde hair, losing himself in the scent of her shampoo and the notes of her expensive perfume. His arms are like magnets to her waist, and if he isn't so damn happy and so damn thoughtless, he would worry about crushing her fragile form.

Is this how Quinn and Rachel and every other yearning person in this world feels? Is this what it's like to just _want_ things? Is this what it feels like to live a life so full of passion, you just lose yourself? Because if it is, if this is exactly how Quinn feels for him or Rachel feels for Broadway, then he doesn't know how they can function without.

He rests his chin against her slender shoulder and begins shuffling his arms from her waist to every part of her body. When her resplendence doesn't come, he takes the initiative to wrap her own arms around him. Mike wants to feel her, this girl who has managed to revolutionize him. If New York is heaven, could she be an angel? He knows that when he comes down from his high, he'll see it as nothing more than basic appreciation. But he's already up in heaven; he may as well be with the angel for as long as he can.

Mike silks his hands around her waist and then up her shoulders. He runs them down her arms and then places them back against her hips. Mike's lips part and he shamelessly places them right in the crook of her neck. He hears a faint gasp from her, and he instantly falls back to reality. Well, somewhat.

"I-" he pauses. He doesn't really have much of an excuse other than wanting to taste her. All five of his senses need to be appeased after all. Smelling, feeling and hearing her isn't enough.

"You really think I'd say 'no' to that?" Quinn asks him coyly, relaxing against his own shoulder. Mike weaves his fingers through her curls, clutching her even tighten when a group of bubbly preteens move past them. He moves her right against the railing, the tiny gasp that slips out of her mouth not going unnoticed.

"Quinn…" what was he even going to say? He honestly can't recall to save his life.

"How was it?"

"I-I got a callback,"

"Honey," she grips him hard, practically jumping in his arms.

"I-I did it," Mike murmurs in disbelief, his hands now sliding back around her slender waist.

"You did it,"

"I actually… I did it. I got it. C-Can you believe it?"

"Absolutely," Quinn says instantly, grinning into his neck.

"Because of you. If you hadn't…"

"Don't," Quinn pinches his hips, stopping the rest of his words.

"Why not?"

"Because if you keep saying all these perfect and wonderful things, I'll cave and I'll suffocate you again…" Mike sighs into her. This girl will drive him insane. Right when he needs her to just hear him, she doesn't want to. No. She has to hear it.

"But you need to know," Mike begs.

"I already do,"

"No, no, you need to hear it." Mike adamantly grasps her ears with his fingers, motioning her head away from his shoulders. He meets her eyes and barely flinches when her intensity overwhelms him.

"You never gave up on me. Even after everything that I said and everything that I did to _make_ you give up on me… You just wouldn't," Quinn sneers.

"I'm sort of stubborn," she finds the need to point out. He shakes his head firmly.

"This is everything I ever wanted, Quinn. This is everything I ever needed. Without you, I wouldn't have wanted this. Now? I can't imagine my life without this," he's saying more than he ever has, like verbal diarrhea.

"I can't imagine how I would have ever found myself in this city with you forcing me into the car. I can't imagine how I would have ever taken this chance! I can't… I can't imagine going back to Lima and being able to say you aren't already under my skin," he lets out a shaky breath.

She's staring at him, eyes wide with absolute glee and pride. Quinn is batshit crazy ninety nine percent of the time. The idea of _not_ being suffocated by her is completely incomprehensible, even in his current grateful state. She has the emotional maturity of a teaspoon and what she wants, she almost always has to get.

But she has a heart of gold that matches her golden tresses.

She'll never hurt him. Regardless of whether or not she 'loves' him, she'll never hurt him. It isn't her style, hurting those she deems worthy. It's why Santana and Puck and Sam stick with her. It's why _he_ wants to stick with her.

"Thank you, Quinn Fabray."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Come on, don't you just adore fluffy!Fabang? I know I do! And I feel like my last author's note was ominous, so let me clarify. Yes, there is angst coming up (it should have actually been in this chapter, but I thought it would be too lengthy so I decided to break it up) but it's angst that will bring them_together_. And as for Rachel and Mike and Quinn and Puck, that will only really be coming around, er, let's estimate 5-6 chapters? More or less.

Don't you just love how much Mike is growing attached to Quinn? I know I do :D

Next chapter: Angst.

**Please review? Review for Fabang and all their glory!**


	10. The Change in Pace

_The Change in Pace_

* * *

Eight years ago, a little girl clad in a pink jumper entered the Fabray household, her plastic rain boots splashing mud all throughout the foyer. Tucked in her arms, safely and securely, was a frog of all things. She almost got away with fostering the stray amphibian in her room if Frannie hadn't squealed at the sight of it.

It didn't take long for Frannie to intervene and toss the frog out into the pouring rain, or for Quinn to thrown an ultimatum: if the frog goes, she goes.

Russell Fabray was sitting in his study at the time, playing with the cigar in his hand and wondering when Judy will head to bed. Meredith had spent the last week pouting over his absenteeism. As if the fact that Quinn's back-to-back therapy sessions with Doctor Sheppard and Judy's never ending list of errands aren't good enough excuses not to meet up for one of their midnight rendezvous. As he inhaled the illicit Cuban cigars, the sound of Quinn's ten-year-old voice rang through the four walls of his office.

"Daddy!" Quinn spouted angrily, hysterical tears running down her pale cheeks. She stomped away from Frannie, who stood by the doorway and tried to feign as much sympathy as possible. She was failing miserably.

"Quinniebee," he stashed his cigar away before he met her halfway through the overly large study.

"She threw Henry out," he raised his eyebrows at Quinn.

"Henry?" he repeats questioningly.

"The frog!" Quinn elaborates.

"It was _filthy_!" hissed Frannie from behind her, arms crossed over her predominantly red and black cheerleading uniform.

"He needed a home!" protested Quinn. She stomped her leg defiantly against the ground, another layer of rain water tricking down the freshly waxed floors.

"Girls," Russell intervenes, scratching his head with her index finger. Sighing, he turns to Quinn's wide hazel eyes, still spouting tears.

"But daddy!" murmurs Quinn, tugging on his shirt.

"Your sister has a point-"

"All she has is poop up her nose!" cried Quinn desperately, staring at Russell pleadingly with those irresistible hazel eyes. "Please daddy, Henry needs a home," Judy appears right behind Frannie, catching his eye and shaking her head furiously.

"Quinniebee," Russell sighs, reeling from the Care Bear stare of his youngest daughter's, the irritation in his older daughter's and the disapproval on his wife's. And so he did what any man could do in the face of three strong women; he ran.

"Ask your mother,"

He returned to his cigar and thoughts of Meredith, silently calculating how long it would take for him to sneak away from Judy's sleeping form, into his car and all the way to East Lima and back before the sun rises. It was only until he finished his cigar, and the sound of Quinn's desperate blubbers and Frannie's screeching voice diminished, did he make his way through the halls. From what he had gathered, Judy ended up siding with Frannie. He stopped by the grand kitchen, sifting through protein shakes and low fat yogurt, before picking up a glass of skim milk and poured it into Quinn's favorite cup with the letter 'Q'on it.

He first ventured into her bedroom and then the den and _then_ he found her; sitting proudly on the porch at ten in the evening, legs crossed and shivering as she watches "Henry" perch himself against a large shrub. He sat with her, smiling kindly, and wrapped his arms around his little girl. His little Quinniebee.

"No one should be alone," Quinn murmured into Russell's chest.

"It's just a frog, Quinn" unlike Frannie, who's realistic almost to a fault, Quinn's head remains in the clouds or in her story books. A wall is never just a wall, a pen is never just a pen and a frog is never just a frog.

"It could be prince charming," she offered quietly, turning beat red at her admission.

"I don't really like the idea of you kissing a frog, Quinnie. Or anyone for that matter," he knew she was a romantic, down to every tiny bone in her body, but being the father that he was, imagining anyone worthy of her just seemed so unfathomable.

"I don't need him to be _my_ prince charming. It isn't about that," he quirked his eyebrow.

"What's it about then?"

"Just loving, you know?"

It's a dangerous path them hardcore Fabrays follow. Quinn may have gotten her textbook romanticism from her mother, but she got the application from her father. It didn't matter who it was or how it occurred; they just wanted to love and be loved. Isn't that why Quinn was out here, talking to a frog? Isn't that why Russell's betraying the sanctity of his marriage for a thirty-year-old department store manager? They want love to the point that they ignore all rationale and logic.

Russell could only sigh. He kissed the top of that perfect blonde main before whispering in her ear, telling her to come inside after thirty minutes, and retreats back to his study.

That's when Russell knew that Quinn, for all of her privilege and stereotypical femininity, had a heart of gold to match her golden tresses. But that heart of gold, sadly, was too captivated with ideals and fairy tales to truly see what's before it.

And now, with Quinn standing before him, history repeats itself. But instead of a slimy frog wrapped in her arms, it's a _boy_, of all things. They stand side-by-side and linger at the large cherry wood doorway of Russell Fabray's study, anxiously staring him down.

"I don't think this is a very good idea," he overhears a voice murmur huskily in Quinn's ear. He watches his Quinn closely. No longer is she clad in that ridiculous pink jumper or wearing muddy boots all throughout the 1.8 million dollar Fabray estate, but she still has that childish wonder jumping around her wide eyes. It's the same cow, different beef.

"It's a great idea," Quinn stops him immediately, placing her hand against his shoulder. He gives in, his shoulder slouching slightly. If it weren't for their predicament, Russell would have found it rather amusing that this boy held no argument against his daughter.

"_What's_ a great idea?" he cuts into their conversation.

"Daddy," Quinn's voice is high-pitched, the same voice she used prior to coaxing him into buying her a Volkswagon Beetle for her 16th birthday.

"Sweetheart, please, don't sugar coat it. I'm a businessman," Russell quips plainly. He sits on the decadent leather chair, legs crossed, as he rolls one of his cufflinks along the expensive mahogany desk. That's another similarity he and his youngest daughter have; their ability to sugar coat almost _everything_.

"Okay… Daddy, this is Mike," Russell releases the cufflink, moving his eyes up to stare at the boy by her side.

"As in, _the_ Mike?" His name lives in infamy in the halls of the Fabray household. Every other word that falls from his daughter's mouth is _Mike_. He bites down on his lip, taking a good long look at the boy. He has seen pictures and caught glimpses of him on days when he'd pick Quinn up from Cheerio practice, but he has never really evaluated him up close.

At first glance, its apparent that he doesn't fit the 'boyfriend' ideals Russell had for Quinn. He had envisioned someone statuesque, a good six feet, with a strong, muscular build. Someone who radiated confidence and charisma right off the bad. Someone who would match Quinn's swagger and recklessness.

"Yes, _the_ Mike," Quinn confirms all too proudly, grasping his arm even tighter.

"I'm _the_ Mike?" he questions, searching Quinn's eyes.

"Let me do the talking, honey, you can just stand still and look pretty," Quinn coaxes him smoothly.

"Quinn," Russell hisses, recapturing the blonde's attention.

"Right, sorry," Immediately, she pulls her hand away from his arm, facing the ground.

"Good evening, Mike" Russell says to Mike, ever the polite businessman despite the growing, some may claim undeserved, distaste for the dark-haired boy. He's a witness to Quinn's constant, slightly shallow, heartache over him to the point that viewing him as anything _but_ an undeserving, spineless bastard proves to be a challenge.

"Hello, sir" Mike replies quietly, quirking his lips up slightly as he extends his hand.

"My daughter tells me a lot about you," Russell flickers his eyes down at Mike's hand, staring it down until it eventually falls back onto his side.

"Oh?" he's egging for more, Russell can detect. As if his daughter's constant badgering and adoration isn't enough of an ego boost.

"Yes," murmurs Russell curtly, turning towards Quinn. "Is Mike staying for dinner or something?" he asks her, barely hiding his distaste.

"Well…" she trails off, playing with the tip of her hair. Rolling his eyes, Russell turns to Mike. "Are you, son?"

"Well, that all really depends…"

"Mike's staying," Quinn confirms, barely fighting the urge to place her hand at the small of his back and rub it tenderly.

"Well I suppose that's alright. We're having grilled salmon, Quinn's favorite,"

"It's mine, too" Mike interjects.

"Ah, that's-" he's just about to cut the boy off, take him down a peg or two, when Quinn intervenes.

"Staying for awhile," she clarifies slowly.

"I beg your pardon?" Quinn's mouth lays agape for a good five seconds before she quickly scrambles for an adequate response.

"He needs a place to stay," she murmurs.

"And?"

"And I thought that…" Quinn begins to trail off hesitantly.

"You thought you could just invite a boy to stay in our home?" Russell asks, scowling almost immediately at the thought of it all. It's the curse of giving your daughter _everything_ that she wants-she learns to ask for _everything_.

"Daddy,"

"Quinn, that wasn't your call to make," snaps Russell, cutting her off.

"I know, but-"

"Do you know how inappropriate this is?"

"But-"

"Mike, excuse you," he gestures to the door, shaking his head irritably. If Russell knew that rejecting Henry from their abode would lead to Quinn dragging in a boy, of all things, eight years later into their home, he would have long bought that damn frog an aquarium. Mike glances nervously down at Quinn, who rubs her thumb against his nape once more, before moving towards the door. As the door shuts behind Mike, Quinn's hazel eyes immediately light up with determination.

"Daddy," says Quinn soothingly, rushing to his side.

"I'm not hearing this anymore," Russell stands up from his seat, sliding past Quinn and towards his mini bar. The taste of good ole Bourbon is exactly what he needs to forget Quinn's insolence.

"His parents kicked him out," she says despite his protests.

"I don't see how that's your problem," he points out, opening the cupboard for his untouched bottle of Bourbon. There's no way he can recover from Quinn's idiocy without alcohol in his system.

"His _parents_ kicked him out! He has nowhere to go," she points out, as if him saying no is such a shock.

"Doesn't he have any other friends?" Russell inquires pointedly.

"No,"

"Be reasonable," Russell begs, resting his head along the cupboard rim, cringing as he realizes the Bourbon to be nowhere in sight.

"I am being reasonable,"

"Why?"

"Hm?" she asks, feigning innocence. There's no way her manipulative, chess playing mind could ever remain in the dark about Russell's underlying questions.

"Why was he kicked out?" he turns to Quinn, who now stands directly by his side.

"He didn't do what his parents want him to," Quinn answers warily, picking her words with the utmost care.

"That isn't exactly making his boy out to be any better in my eyes,"

"He wanted to follow him dream and they wouldn't let him," she adds brightly.

"Again, Quinn, how is this your problem?"

"He's my friend,"

"We both know that isn't what this is," he turns to her, heaving a heavy sigh. Calculating, she may be, self-aware, she is not.

"What is it?" she asks him demandingly.

"It's you and your little crush on him," he places his pointing finger on her nose.

"Is that why you're saying no?" she asks him quietly, pulling it away.

"There's malice behind it! He's a boy! A boy you like, by the way,"

"Well so what if I do like him?"

"The 'so what' is that you liking him makes this wrong. He'll see you in your knickers and you'll be sharing a bathroom-"

"The guest room has its own bathroom," Quinn murmurs simply.

"My point is that it doesn't look nice, it doesn't look nice _at all_,"

"So you're saying no because he's a boy?"

"Basically, yes," he snaps, leaning against his large desk.

"So what about the Sam thing?" Quinn crosses her arms defensively against her body, eyeing her father's reaction carefully.

"Sam was homeless," answers Russell firmly.

"_So_ is he!"

"He has a choice. He could always go home" argues Russell.

"And be their little bitch," Russell raises his eyebrows. "Ahem, sorry" she corrects herself.

"All I'm saying is that Sam is a boy, too, and you let him stay with us for a week," Quinn continues, staring desperately into her father's eyes.

"His father is a good friend of mine, and a good friend of yours. They were in a difficult position," he coaxes her, pressing his pointing finger and thumb together in the gap between his eyebrows.

"So is he,"

"I barely know this kid!"

"For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink_, I was a stranger and you invited me in_. The book of Matthew," a flame goes off in Russell's head. It's one thing for Quinn to kick and scream out of desperation, another for her to use his bible-quoting methods against him.

"Don't you dare quote the bible at me!"

"I'm sorry, I just… Daddy, please. I'm begging you," she stutters, cringing as Russell only sneers at the idea.

"What's this really about, Quinn? Is this just another one of your ploys?"

"It isn't about that. It isn't about the fact that I love him," Russell flinches. "It's just about… Loving. Loving your neighbor. Loving your friend. Loving someone who desperately needs it," and there it is, the Quinn Fabray philosophy. Hell, the Russell-Quinn philosophy really. It's all about the love, all about _loving_. It doesn't matter who, what, when, where or why, it's their thing. They thrive on affection and attachment. They fall in and out of one plot to the next just to get the love they so yearn for: the unwavering, unconditional and irrevocable love.

He understands it, lives it and is tormented by it. Any reasonable father would say no. He would shut her down, raise his authority and lead that damn boy with the lanky figure to a close relative's. But he isn't a reasonable father, he's _her_ father. He is the tree in which Quinn's dangerous romanticism roots from. Sighing, he shakes his head in defeat.

* * *

The Fabray household takes up an estimated two acres on Dewy lane at Uptown Lima. Much like the rest of the homes on Dewy lane, its perfectly manicured from the well cut shrubs to the strategic, outdoor lighting scheme. Inside isn't any different. The marble floors spread throughout the first level, adding an air of elegance to the already elegant Fabray home.

In Mike's opinion, it looks every bit like a magazine home or one of the Ikea floor plans than an actual home for an actual family. A lot like the Fabrays, really. He doesn't amuse himself with petty gossip. It isn't him, really. But from his mother's off-handed comments about the Fabray family, they're a Sims simulated family: perfect in every way possible.

They dress in pastels, excel in matters of societal politics and the art of snobbery, and live in the lap of luxury. It would be easy for anyone to cast them off as just another White Anglo Saxon family with strong faith and even sharper tongue, much like Quinn. But seconds into staying with the Fabrays, and he reconsiders his disposition on them.

First, there's the matter of Mr. Fabray warming up to the idea of him staying with them. He may not have smiled and may have refused to accept his gratitude, but he did assist Mrs. Fabray in setting an extra place setting. Unlike her husband, Mrs. Fabray seemed _thrilled_ to have him around, if only because it would provide inspiration for her current romantic, short story about two young lovers. She thrust herself into his arms, rubbing his back soothingly and whispering how everything would be all right. She said it with such sincerity that Mike almost believed her.

Mrs. Fabray, or Judy as she begged for him to call her, had the same slightly suffocating yet endearing charm as Quinn. It's easy to peg where that trait roots.

Second, there's the entire hour they spent at the dinner table. He expected some expensive porcelain plates and gourmet dinner. He expected them to sit in what they claim to be comfortable silence, only speaking up to spread harsh gossip or ask to pass the saltshaker. Instead, the entire evening was a bundle of laughter (on their part, anyways) and inside jokes.

Suffice it to say, Mike is taken aback by the difference between societal perception and reality.

He sits numbly on the four-poster bed in the Fabray's guest room, soaking in the scent of peppermint spray and his predicament. He wishes so desperately that a heavy weight is resting on his chest, the weight consisting of guilt and fear. But there's no guilt or fear in his heart and no regret in his mind. He isn't over-analyzing every word said and every movement made in the center of the Chang's living room. He isn't flooded with numerous thoughts, just one; relief.

What does that mean? Is what he did right, then? Was stepping outside of his house, a single bag in hand, and barely looking back healthy? Did it mean that, in the grand spectrum of life, it's a life changing decision for the better? Or did it mean that Mike has lost it completely?

He's shaken out of his thoughts by a light knock. Mike sits up from the king-sized bed, sighing heavily as he hovers near the door, about to twist the knob and open it.

"You don't need to open up," Quinn's distinct, silky voice whispers. "You aren't allowed to, anyways. I should be in my room right now,"

"But you aren't." Mike says knowingly.

"You know me, a big troublemaker," he lets out a low chuckle, sliding down the wall as he rests beside the door. From the way he hears her body shuffle, she mirrors his actions.

"How are you?" she asks him.

"Is it wrong that I'm… Okay?" asks Mike warily. The thought has been passing his mind ever since he has arrived at the Fabray's estate. Did it mean something that he didn't feel that heart sinking, mind reeling feeling you should when you move out of your parents' house?

"I think that's a good thing." Mike can't see her face, but from the sound of her voice, she seems to mean it.

"Do you think I screwed up?" he asks, shutting his eyes as he waits for her response. She hears her sigh from the other end of the door.

"_I_ think you did what you needed to do." Quinn answers simply.

"Even if it means losing _both_ my parents?" he squeezes his eyes shut further, the reality of his situation slowly settling in. That being said, he has yet to feel complete remorse or regret. He almost wants her to convince him to be upset, to feel guilty. That way, maybe he can talk himself out of this life altering decision he made. He's the most anticipating, predictable human being in the planet, and in an instant, he walks away from his perfect life for a dream.

"Even then," agrees Quinn.

"I like your family," Mike continues, playing with the denim of his jeans.

"Makes one of us," she jokes, before quickly adding. "I'm glad they're mine," Mike nods passively, before realizing she can't see the gesture of acknowledgement.

"You're a lot like your mom," he watched, with much interest, as their mannerisms and facial expressions mirrored each other's. She's the spitting image of Judy Fabray.

"The hair?" Quinn inquires.

"That and the way you scrunch your nose whenever you don't like something," he visualizes Quinn's soft, raspberry lipgloss covered lips curling into that characteristic smile of hers. He can just visualize her head cocking itself to the right side, just as she does whenever he says something that betrays his inner emotions. "Or when you thumb through your hair when you're thinking about something," now he imagines her coy smirk, her little HBIC smirk, from the other end of the door.

"I didn't know you enjoyed watching my mom." Quinn taunts saucily after a brief pause.

"I enjoy watching you," slips from his tongue, much to his surprise. He tightens his grip around his jeans, his large brown eyes widening further. _Damn Quinn Fabray effect._

"I should head to bed," excuses Quinn. He frowns. The queen bee that he knows would have pounced through the door and dropped into his welcoming arms after hearing such a thing.

"I need to put a foot in my mouth," she continues further, the sound of her shuffling her body around penetrating through the wooden door. Mike's about to ask why that is before she responds, as if reading his mind.

"I don't want to suffocate you,"

"Maybe you don't suffocate me," says Mike a little too quickly. She snorts.

"No, I do. But it's okay, I won't anymore," there's this wave of fear that overcomes Mike. It comes in a second so fleeting and passing, he barely realizes it. But for that tiny second, he fears that he pushed her too hard, squashed her spirits a little too much and now she's relenting. Mike doesn't enjoy Quinn's over-enthusiastic pursuit of him, he doesn't enjoy the lengths in which she goes to for him. But to imagine Quinn without that fiery spirit… It's just unimaginable.

"Not to the extent I used to, anyways" a tiny breathe of relief passes Mike's lungs at her words.

"Why's that?" asks Mike curiously.

"I think you like me," you've got to give this girl props for her gal. "It's an entirely different strategy once the person you like starts liking you, too." Mike wants to tear the door open and take a good long look at what her face and body is doing. He doesn't know her the way he knows Rachel, his ever predicable ex-best friend. Mike wishes he does. He likes knowing everything, observing anything. And to be in the dark about the unsolvable puzzle that is Quinn Fabray is just so damn irritating.

"Goodnight, Mike" the sound of her straightening her body, followed by footsteps down the hardwood floors, indicates her departure.

For some unfathomable reason, the image of her body retreating away from him irks him in a way he can't describe.

* * *

Quinn lazily rubs her wrist over her hazel eyes, yawning loudly. Sleep is never a difficult thing for Quinn to achieve. But sleeping soundly for an extended amount of time proves to be of much difficulty. The only tolerable thing about her sleeping habits is that it's mildly predictable. She stirs awake around two thirty in the morning, fools herself into believing she'll fall back asleep for a good ten minutes before she gives up and walks downstairs for a glass of skim milk and a sugarless cookie.

Tonight is no exception.

She's dressed in her favorite, light grey sweater from Columbus and plaid sleeping pajamas. Her feet are bare, and freezing along the hardwood floor. She tucks the warm glass of skim milk against her chest, walking up the large fleet of stairs in silence. As expected, the sounds of her mother's light snores ring through the large estate. It's hardly bothersome, but district enough for Quinn to realize she's fast asleep. Right as she's about to enter her own room, she notes that the guest bedroom door is slightly ajar.

One peek. She wills herself to only take one peek.

She's reached this point with Mike, the point where he actually likes her. Where he actually _sees_ her as more than the annoying blonde with a crush. She can't blow it because she suffers from Mike Chang withdrawal symptoms.

Inching slowly and carefully towards the door, she takes a peak inside. Mike's long body is jammed together, his arms wrapped around his knees and his head tucked in between. He looks like a cat. Or maybe an unborn baby. Both send jitters down Quinn's spine.

She's so taken with the adorable sight that it takes sometime for her to realize his body quivering. He's clad in a muscle tee and shorts, not exactly appropriate weather for wintertime. His blanket has fallen to the ground, leaving him exposed.

New game plan: go in, cover him with his blanket and go back to sleep. Surely she can stick true to such a simple plan. It's enough indulgence to soothe her needs, but not enough to break her newly constructed strategy. She tip toes into the guest bedroom, much like a ninja in a hoodie with a cookie and warm milk. Quinn gently places it along the desk before picking up the blanket from the ground. She stares further, noting the peaceful state Mike's in.

The quayhem often mock her for her obsession with him, but how couldn't you obsess over such a beautiful creation? It's impossible, is what it is. She stretches the blanket before leaning over his body, the heat of his body lingering along her own. Quinn lets out a low breathe, covering first his legs and then his chest.

"My Quinn," yawns Mike, grabbing her body instinctively and tugging on it. Her eyes practically budge out of her sockets. This isn't part of the game plan. She cusses under her breathe, attempting to pull her body away from his when he speaks up again.

"Thank you," his eyes flutter open slightly, meeting Quinn's own large orbs with apparent gratitude. She wants to kiss him. She wants to lose herself in those lips, in that body and in his warmth.

"Cookie?" Quinn offers, picking it up from the desk and extending it to him. Something tells her that a cookie is far safer an offer than to take him right then and there. Mike lifts his head, munching on the cookie. Quinn notes that his hands are still wrapped around her waist, much to her intolerable pleasure.

"Come to bed," Mike says lazily, tugging again.

"Wait, shit… No," it kills her to say it, but she can't. Her dad will kill her. Her instincts will take over her. She can't be trusted in the same bed with Mike Chang. That's just too much for one girl to handle, even a girl like her.

"I want you to sleep here." Mike states with no shame. It's a far cry from the boy who contains his emotions and words. It seems that Mike, when unconscious and unknowing, is far more open to his needs and wants than he is when sober. He tugs again, and this time she gives in. Quinn rolls into his arms, tucking herself into the crook of her neck, and she has to curse under her breathe.

This is where she wants to be, where she should be. This is heavenly. This is perfect.

Mike's arms snake around her body, covering her with the very blanket she did not long ago.

"This is wrong," whispers Quinn worriedly. What if her parents woke up before her? What if she ended up dry humping him in his sleep? What if he regrets this? What if _she_ does?

"It feels right to me," he runs his hand along her outer thigh, motioning for her to wrap her leg along his. It's the exact way she sleeps, and she can't help but wonder if Mike watches her at the motel and knows exactly how she sleeps herself. She doesn't fight it, but goes further into it.

"Me too," Quinn admits breathlessly. Mike nods along her scalp.

"San, Puck and Sam are coming over tomorrow," she continues. Mike nods again.

"You can hang out with us," Mike nods again.

Moments pass, moments of bliss and moments of perfection and she's surer now than ever-she has to have him. Yes, she has always wanted him. But now, he wants her, too. He subconsciously knows it already. But she knows the man who makes her heart sink and speed up, and knows that he can never pursue it himself. So it's up to her to make him conscious of the fact that they belong together. They're dead on.

He's the missing pieces of her puzzle piece that makes for a completed jigsaw puzzle.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I know, I know, this update took forever. I've been missing the muse for this fic for awhile, but I've recently found it again so good for us! Yes, this is the angst I was talking about. Not as angsty as I led it up to be, I'm aware, but the turbulence comes later in the story.

Review!


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